


Deliverance

by Blue_Sunshine



Series: The Desert Storm [12]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alderaan, Assassination Plot(s), Corellian Jedi, Corellian Temple, Crushes, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force-Sensitive Shmi Skywalker, Gen, Jedi Council - Freeform, Jedi Culture, Jedi Service Corps, Jedi Shmi Skywalker, Jedi Temple (Star Wars), Kaleesh, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, Padawan training, Politics, Royalty, Ship Crash, Snow, Spies & Secret Agents, Survival, Teen Crush, Teenage Shenanigans, Teenagers, Therapy is good, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-09-19 07:31:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 69,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20327410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine
Summary: It is said that the journey is more important than the destination.This is...notalways so.





	1. Chapter 1

“You’re certain we won’t get in trouble over this?” Quinlan asks suspiciously, arms crossed, mouth a flat line – an image of grimness utterly ruined by the little twi’lek clinging to his shoulders.

“You’re teaching them sabacc. It requires focus, self-discipline, and reasoning while allowing them to practice risk without, well, _real_ risk.” Master Se’sannima replies, lekku twitching. “So long as you stick to teaching them cards, and not _creative invectives_-“ The crechemaster glances aside at Padawan Muln, who scratches his head sheepishly. “ – all will be well.”

“I meant…” Quinlan bites down on is words, and points to himself with a flourish.

The older twi’lek woman raises a finely tattooed brow. “Is there something _wrong_ with you, Padawan Vos?” She inquires loftily.

Obi-Wan and Siri, waiting for Quinlan to get over himself after having had to drag him to the creche for youngling duty, both snort. Bant sighs at them.

Quinlan scowls at the crechemaster, because that question feels like a trap no matter how he answers, and a small flutter of warmth brushes against his sense of himself, making him shiver. It’s so light, that touch, but never fragile. Quinlan leans into it, into the bond with Obi-Wan and it’s steady, stabilizing presence. As always, when he does, everything around him seems to become sharper, clearer, the Force just a little closer – not the Light, not the Dark, just….the Force, drawn in towards Obi-Wan’s unfaltering kindness and Quinlan’s sharp anger, singing back and forth between them in a balance, in a harmony.

It was a time of great flux for the Jedi Order. Delegates from the other Temples and from the Corps were on their way, new missions rosters and assignment ques where still being figured out, the junior padawan lesson cycle was back in full swing, and in the midst of all that was still the day to day running of the Temple. The creche was no less busy – more so, in fact, drawn in to the new debates over initiate policies. As such, today, most of the crechemasters were in Council, leaving a few on hand to supervise the Padawans who had volunteered to assist the Clans while their crechemasters were busy.

_Coincidentally_, most of those volunteers were members of the Padawan Sabacc League.

“Trick question, Master Se!” Sian Jeisel chirps, ducking around the twi’lek with a little devaronian boy on her shoulders and a red-headed toddler in her arms she immediately passes to Obi-Wan, whose delight fills the room. Sian pauses and plants herself in front of Quinlan, peering intensely into his eyes in a way that makes him want to back up – her iridescent gaze is pretty, but that kind of focus makes it seem eerie and unfathomable in a way that is quite disconcerting. He feels bad for her master, because he’s seen the man get caught by one of those looks and just freeze up, flustered, until his padawan looks away and releases him from her focus.

“You have lovely _brown_ eyes.” She says succinctly, and flounces towards the great ring of cushions the younglings have been building.

Quinlan grumbles after her and rubs at the stripe across his nose. Aayla tries to catch his hand, sliding as she loses her grip, and he catches her, bouncing her back up so she doesn’t accidentally try to strangle him to hold on.

He glances at Obi-Wan.

Forging the bond with the fifteen year old had felt…well, _hadn’t_, actually. Not at first. He felt their connection thread together in the Force, but everything else had been….anticlimactic. A tingling in his skin, or his bones, maybe, but nothing spectacular had changed. He’d felt disappointed, _hoping_…

Obi-Wan had taken one look at his glum face and laughed, reaching out, grabbing him by the hand, and pulling them both to their feet.

“I don’t feel any different.” Quinlan complained, edging around that new strange _other_ in his head. Different than the rest, both more and less tangible.

“I hope not.” Obi-Wan had said. “I don’t want to change who you are, Quinlan. Although…” The younger boy had smirked, looking up at him with bright blue-green eyes. “It’s good to see just _your_ eyes again.”

Quinlan had bolted for the nearest fresher and jerked to a halt, staring, in front of a mirror. His eyes were _brown_, just brown; no edge of yellow, not even a fleck. His chest had tightened up and he’d stopped breathing, and Quinan felt…

He’d reached in, and when he reached in, it wasn’t just darkness waiting for him anymore.

He couldn’t flip a switch or turn a corner and go from Light to Dark or Dark to Light. Falling had been…quick, but not instantaneous. It had been like…like a well. And you go into the well because you _need_ what it has. And you go deeper because you need _more_, and it _welcomes_ you. And then you go so deep you can’t see the way out anymore. While you’re drinking from the well, you don’t _want_ out. But when you stop drinking, you start drowning, and there’s still no way out, not that you can see.

Obi-Wan couldn’t pull him from the well of the Dark Side, but Quinlan was starting to see the way, instead of just vainly, blindly reaching for one.

“Quinlan!” Siri snaps, and he blinks, turning to frown at her for her attitude. She gives him a look, and he saunters over to find a place in the circle of cushions. Every padawan had a youngling – or two – in their lap, most with another on their shoulders or pressed against their side, all giggling and twitching excitedly – or shoving each other because no, this was _their_ mentor.

“C’mon, Aayla, let’s show them how it’s done.” Quinlan drawls.

“How it’s _won_.” Aayla corrects, leaning over his shoulder, her elbow digging into his collarbone. “We’re winning. You have to.” The eight year old informs him imperiously.

“I don’t know kiddo,” Quinlan drawls, pushing Siri – cushion, younglings, and all – aside with a foot so he can sit next to Obi-Wan. “The competition is fierce.” Siri shoots him a hot glare and Quinlan gives her his best charming smirk. She blushes bright pink and looks sharply away, and Quinlan blinks, because _that’s_ new.

“What is ‘fierce?’” Aayla asks, frowning, her lekku curling a little.

“Strong and focused.” Quinlan supplies. “Like you.” He adds teasingly.

She grins winningly at him, lekku humming against his shoulder.

~*~

Shaak Ti opens the door to her quarters and alights her gaze on Master Tholme, hovering over her threshold, tripping both the door sensor and her own spatial awareness as well.

He wasn’t pacing, which would have been far more worrisome, but eventually she decided that perhaps she should not leave him looming outside her door in self-contemplation either.

“May I assist you, Master Tholme?” Shaak Ti inquires serenely.

“Is your padawan in residence?” He inquires in turn. Shaak Ti hums thoughtfully, a tone through her montrals too low for him to hear.

“Not at the moment.” Shaak Ti replies.

His countenance does not change, but he feels relieved, and Shaak Ti quietly dismisses a smile before it forms.

She is not oblivious to his present conundrum, but she had not seen fit to intervene, either. Tholme was a man in the fading years of his prime and Shmi a grown woman, padawan or not.

When Shaak Ti had inquired as to what her padawan saw fit to do, simply to do it without fear of the consequences, Shmi had quite succinctly told her that she kissed Master Tholme. Shaak had been startled, but let the matter be.

One simple act of pure self-interest, without punishment, had done wonders for brightening Shmi’s self-assurance.

Master Tholme, on the other hand, appears to have been taken off guard ever since. Shaak Ti has more than once witnessed the man freeze and stare when Shmi offered him one of her precious smiles in passing, which earned one of the brightest, most childish grins she’s seen on Padawan Vos in _years_.

“I would… speak with you…regarding some concerns, if I may.” Master Tholme says slowly, almost reluctantly.

Shaak Ti steps aside and motions him to follow her in, the door swicking shut behind them. Her quarters are not so spacious as the Naasade/Kenobi quarters, and Shaak Ti’s use of drapes and tapestry has closed the space even more, but it reminds her of home, and though it may seem small, it is comfortable and familiar. Shmi too has taken to adding touches of her own taste into their decoration, either small decorative chimes or strands of beadwork or even reams of fabric she was taken with but hadn’t quite decided a purpose for yet, from her various trips to the markets in the lower levels.

Tholme’s good eye traces over the walls and shelves, the quarters comforting and busy in a way that distracts from its minimalism.

“I have a pot of tea, but it may not be to your liking.” Shaak Ti offers.

He lifts a brow.

“It’s tea in the very broad sense.” Shaak Ti says. “More like a very long stewed, fermented fruit compote.”

“Like _afke_?” He inquires.

“_Afke_?” Shaak repeats, curious.

“It’s a kiffar medicinal tonic.” Tholme informs her. “I’ve never met a kiffar who didn’t claim to find it disgusting; I’ve also never met a kiffar who ever turned down a cup. It’s about the only thing I can get Quinlan to consume when he’s sick – or in a _mood_.”

“And you? Do you like it?”

Tholme considers this. “I _drink_ it.” He says dubiously. “I spent twenty years on Kiffu, and as I said – no one turns it down.”

“Would you like a cup then? To compare tastes?” Shaak Ti offers, gesturing for him to take one of the floor cushions around her low carved table.

Tholme nods, settling himself down. Shaak Ti does not watch him – she is aware that some find the full focus of a Togruta to be…unnerving, at times. But she observes him. Non-lekku bearing species, even among Force-Sensitives, never quite seemed to understand that Togruta, and Twi’lek, and species like them, never relied solely on their eyes. She can feel his pulse beating through her lekku, and the tension in his bones and muscles through her montrals, and the guarded churning of his thoughts through the Force.

He is troubled, in a way, she believes, he is not used to.

Shaak Ti pours him a shallow cup of tea, and then herself, cupping her hands around the low, bowl-like cup. His good eye flicks over, watching her take the first careful sip, the cup resting in her palms, not her fingertips, and imitates the method.

His eyes pinch a little as he swallows, his manner thoughtful as he lowers the cup and looks down into the thick purple-brown mixture. “Different fruits and herbs – but otherwise the same.” He reports. “_Why_ are you drinking this?”

“It was a gift from Master Yaddle.” Shaak Ti replies innocently. Tholme frowns slightly, likely reading more into that than he ought to, and Shaak Ti wonders what the old Watchmen knows but courteously does not _acknowledge_ that he knows, about the significance of that statement.

“I see.” He remarks tactfully, and Shaak Ti trills a low, humorous note. He takes another sip, and Shaak Ti does as well. Her tongue curls slightly, as it is really not to her tastes, but waste not want not. Taste was not the tea’s purpose.

“Shmi – that is, your padawan-“ Master Tholmes starts.

“Shmi.” Shaak Ti nods patiently.

“I…” He does not sound flustered so much as…sad. “… don’t know what to do about her.”

“Do?”

“She kissed me.”

“I know.” Shaak Ti nods. “She was quite pleased with herself. Did she upset you?” Shaak Ti inquires sincerely. “I had thought the two of you were of amiable affections.”

She also knows her padawan would never have dared do it if she thought her advance was unwanted. Shmi understood the absolute value of agency and consent, and she would never take it from someone, particularly someone whom she cared for.

Tholme’s brow furrows. “You do understand she argues with me? Constantly? I’m fairly certain I am the one individual in this temple with whom she displays her temper the most.” His expression hardly alters – he’s a reserved man, and rarely reveals himself, but in his voice Shaak Ti can sense his affection - in spite of his claim.

Shaak Ti sighs with her chest, and smiles faintly. “Master Tholme, you are very nearly the _only_ individual outside our household with whom she displays her temper.”

He looks up at her, and sighs in confused frustration, rubbing at the scar around his eye.

“Tholme.” Shaak Ti dispenses with titles, feeling they are on far too delicate a subject. “ That Shmi will give you her unguarded opinion, that she will challenge you, argue with you, that is a sign of trust she offers very few. Even such small displays of passion – my padawan has lived a life of fear. The only safe place she has ever had was inside her own head. Her thoughts and feelings were the only things that ever really belonged to her, and she keeps and guards them still. Shmi Skywalker does not show you her temper because you have her ire – she shows you her temper because she feels, with you, that she is safe enough to do so.”

“But she _kissed_ me.” Tholme stresses.

“You are no stranger to relationships.” Shaak Ti points out.

“T’ra and Anya – except she is – Master Ti, your padawan is _half my age_. And a _padawan_.”

“And does that somehow diminish her?” Shaak Ti lifts a brow, trilling low in her throat, making her lekku buzz. She knows that isn’t what he means. She is also certain _he_ doesn’t entirely know what he means. “She isn’t an adolescent, Tholme. She isn’t _naïve_. My padawan knows herself well enough, and I would be surprised if she has not considered far more consequences for her affections than you ever could. It was a _kiss_, not marriage.”

And Shaak Ti never once believed it could be the precursors of attachment. Not for Shmi Skywalker.

“I don’t want to be seen as taking an advantage.” Tholme finally confesses. Shaak Ti trills another soundless note – he has admitted himself in his care for her, in trying not to admit it. Shaak Ti is both amused and exasperated. She often forgets how little of how much Shmi is capable of that others cannot see. Even those who try to.

“Because she is a padawan? Because she is younger than you?” Shaak Ti inquires pointedly. “Or because she was a slave?”

He looks away, and Shaak knows she has guessed it. There is a measure between kindness and pity that the downtrodden and abused know too well and the fortunate often find difficult to understand.

Tholme is aware of it, but Shmi was too often defined by it.

“Consider it less by how it will be seen and more by what it is.” Shaak Ti tells him. “Or is not. She’ll take nothing from you that you don’t offer – do her the same courtesy.”

~*~

A camaasi grin is a somewhat awkward thing, a peeling up of the upper lip, revealing just their forward teeth and none of their fangs, and Ben comes to a faltering stop to see such a look on his Healer’s face.

“What?” He inquires, reaching up to smooth his fingers through his hair and brush the edge of his tabards, assuring everything was proper, out of concerned habit.

Healer Kala lift a hand to her muzzle, concealing the expression as she smooths it away. “You quite nearly _bounced_ your way through that door, Master Naasade. I am simply thrilled to see you looking so enthused. Can I assume your classes are going well?”

Ben smiles, though he can feel his ears reddening at her regard. “For myself, yes, quite well. I imagine my students have another story to tell.”

“I would not doubt.” Healer Kala replies, an amused ruffle running through her striped fur. “There was a rumor that they signed a contract to enter the class saying they weren’t allowed to drop out?”

“It’s a twelve lesson course.” Ben huffs. “They will _survive_. Master Drallig and I thought some, however, would need the incentive to follow through – and others who were not truly interested the incentive to not waste anyone’s time.”

“Very practical.” The Healer approves, turning a hand to invite him to sit, her ears twitching. “And Obi-Wan? How is your padawan doing?”

“When he isn’t ducking the Battle Master’s requests to be an assistant instructor?” Ben smirks, settling down onto the bench. “He’s a little flustered by the new lesson cycle – he has taken on quite a lot, between the mandatory requirements, the courses Healer Ni Hiella recommended, the healer’s lessons themselves…” Ben frowns, listing them off, only just now realizing _how much_ Obi-Wan had taken on. “… the substitute assignments I’ve given him and the work he’s agreed to do for the Council.”

Healer Kala’s ears twitch. “That’s a heavy load for a junior padawan.” She remarks calmly. “All this in addition to his training with you?”

Ben nods, and strokes his beard, thinking on it. He’s also aware that Obi-Wan makes sure to see his friends at least once a week, and he makes time for Anakin and Quinlan almost daily.

Ben has a sinking feeling that he should start keeping tabs on _how_ his padawan makes the time, because that is a lot, and the only way Ben can see him keeping up is if he’s cheating on his studies - which the master doubts very much - or skimping on his sleep, which Ben ruefully acknowledges is something he himself was no stranger to.

“I’ll be more mindful of him.” Ben remarks aloud, and Healer Kala nods.

“That is certainly something you and I can touch on in our sessions. He’s very capable – much like his master – but he is still quite young, and he follows your influence.”

Ben nods, feeling a little regret that he could have used such counseling and support in raising his first padawan, but had been too reluctant, and too worried of his precarious position with the council regarding said padawan, to seek it out. He had believed that if he had appeared incapable….that they would take Anakin from him. So he had suffered through as best he could.

And he knows how that turned out.

“Well then,” Healer Kala says, turning to pour a cup of tea – ever present at their sessions – for him. “I had asked you in our last session to evaluate your relationships with those around you. Shall we start there today?”

Ben accepts the cup, glad to have something to put in his hands, and thinks for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Healer Kala believed he was still very isolated, and was attempting to coax him to work on establishing and building up his personal relationships.

To be fair, Ben agreed with her.

Unfortunately, that didn’t appear to make his endeavors any easier.

“I had lunch with Master Windu the other day.” Ben says, taking a sip of tea and sighing. He would like to be friends with the man again, and it would be simpler to do so if he had known Mace any less well and if he trusted the young councilors motives a little more.

Which would also be simpler to do if could more clearly parse his own paranoia from actual intent – and focus on motivations and events from _this_ time, and not the other.

He was tempted to delve into his past and blur his own memories for the sake of simplicity, but Healer Kala strictly disapproved of his self-prescribed and self-inflicted mental meddling. As it was the Soul Healer was _deeply_ concerned over how he had managed his own psyche and trauma by triaging his memories and perceptions regarding the end of the Clone Wars.

“And how do you feel that went?” She inquires.

Ben blinks, perking up and focusing on her dark, shining eyes.

“Awkwardly.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I have to put a stop to this.” Qui-Gon declares, standing rigidly on the outside of an observation window for one of the padawan salles.

“Absolutely not, Qui.” Tahl grabs him with both hands, and he wisely chooses not to fight.

“But it’s _dreadful_.” He whines.

“It’s _brilliant_.” Tahl grins, not letting go because she _knows_ Qui-Gon Jinn, and he’s been playing _distract-disarm-and-dash_ since they were younglings.

Inside the salle, her pink blade in a reverse grip, Padawan Sian Jeisel was twisting her way around a dubious Bant Eerin, who was doing an admirable job of keeping her guard up in spite of the devaronian girls bone-jarring blows, delivered with a quickness that would one day be devastating, when her form was less clumsy.

“Too low.” Padawan Kenobi comments, hunkered down at the base of a pillar with a datapad in hand and two more on the floor.

“I’m only so tall!” Sian protests.

“So? Your blade was too low.” Kenobi retorts. “Bring your elbow up.”

“You’re always telling me to tuck it in.” Sian rolls her eyes.

Padawan Kenobi finally looks up, the contents of the datapad reflected in his eyes. “And for that maneuver, I’m telling you to _bring it up_.”

Sian glowers at him, sets her jaw stubbornly, and backs up to try again. She looks to Bant, who nods, and the dance begins again.

“Is it just me, or is that boy sometimes frightfully like his master?” Tahl muses.

“On occasion.” Qui-Gon acknowledges. “You can unhand me now.”

Tahl lifts a judgmental brow for his tone, but releases him, her gold and green striped eyes watchful and bright.

“You could go in there and assist them.” Tahl remarks. “You _are_ a trained makashi duelist.”

“Reluctantly.” Qui-Gon rebuts. “I haven’t practiced that form in years. And I am not encouraging this madness.”

Tahl takes a deep breath in through her nose. “Qui-Gon Jinn.” She intones lowly. “Stubbornness and pride are your least attractive qualities.”

“I beg your pardon?” Qui-Gon huffs, shifting uncomfortably under her disapproval, but holding himself stiffly.

“That girl is attempting to do something difficult and innovative and you won’t go in there and help her because of _what_ – she practices your old master’s favorite form? When is this…this petty contrariness towards anything to do with Yan Dooku going to end? She’s brilliant, Qui, and she’s _yours_. Get _over_ it.”

Maybe it’s her tone, or her inflection, but Qui-Gon shivers a little.

_A great Jedi. Just not a very good man_.

The thought haunts him, and he doesn’t know how to _fix_ it.

“Am I…a bad master?” He asks, feeling sorry for himself, and looking it, if the way Tahl’s eyes pinch is any indication.

“A frustrating one, I’m sure.” Tahl says carefully, and Qui-Gon winces, which makes her wince. With each other, they’ve never been particularly good at tact.

Tahl sighs, rubbing wearily at her brow. “You used to be better.” She admits.

_Before Xanatos_, she doesn’t say, but they both know it’s there.

“I do have to put a stop to this.” Qui-Gon says, turning towards the entrance of the salle.

“Qui-Gon!” Tahl huffs, aggrieved, and he holds up a placating hand.

“The _time_, Tahl – Sian is due to attend a seminar.” He chides.

“Oh, _kark_!” Tahl curses. “I’m due to _lecture_ a seminar! Just-“ Tahl points at him with a stern hand, but she’s smiling. “ – don’t diminish what she _is_, Qui, for the sake of what you wish she was. Don’t ruin your future – _her_ future – by trying to redo the past.”

Qui-Gon feels his throat lock shut, caught off guard, and Tahl’s gaze softens, and then she rolls her eyes with a fond sigh. “Just try, Qui-Gon.” She says, and steps past him to go to her seminar.

“Do or do not.” Qui-Gon mutters after her. She flips a gesture over her shoulder that makes him bite his cheek and her turns and stalks over to the entrance of the salle. _Honestly_, that _woman_.

He takes a settling breathe and presses the door-key. The door swicks open.

“Sian.” He calls evenly, eyeing his padawan as she lands meets a jarring block at the hands of Bant Eerin.

“Master!” She smiles brightly, disengaging from her opponent, and the mon calamari girl ducks away in relief, gills flaring. Almost reflexively, Sian rolls her lightsaber into a forward grip the moment he appears.

Qui-Gon lift a brow, and she stares at him a moment, and then it comes to her. “The seminar!” She blurts.

“The seminar.” Qui-Gon nods.

“Thank you Obi, thank you Bant.” Sian twirls and bows abruptly. “I have to go.”

“Obi-_Wan_.” The red-head says, exasperated. Sian grins at the retort and jaunts out of the room on her master’s heels.

“You didn’t have to fetch me yourself, Master.” Sian says brightly, looking and feeling pleased to see him nonetheless. “_I_ carry a comm.” She teases.

“Yes. You carry mine too.” Qui-Gon remarks, lifting a brow. The teenling pauses a moment, adding that up.

“Oh.” She mutters.

Qui-Gon snorts.

She gives him a short look, her iridescent eyes seeming to flash. Qui-Gon steels himself.

“Your creativity does you credit.” He says, feeling stilted and a little trite. “As does your dedication. What I saw of it back there.” He tips his head back towards the salles behind them.

She stares at him, her shimmering blue eyes wide, softer and more vulnerable than he was used to seeing from his padawan.

She looks down shyly, shifting her balance and licking her lips nervously. “Thank you, Master.”

Qui-Gon looks over her head and keeps walking, wanting to move past the strangeness of the stitled exchange. “You’re welcome, padawan.” He says quietly, full of warmth.

It takes another moment or two, but she finally starts moving again, dashing to catch up, and Qui-Gon finds himself smiling.

~*~

“-truly thank you for your concern, girls, whomever the architect of this ziggurat was they should be scolded for impractical design. Navigating these halls is maddening.” Fay remarks, having been quite lost in the maze of inner halls.

Again.

“The architect is four hundred years dead, Master Fay.” Padawan Tachi informs her, smiling brightly where her master purses her lips a little tighter and ah – yes – they are of different generations, though compared to Fay herself…well, they are both simply _young_. “The original one, at least.”

“I’ll do it later, then.” Fay remarks, eyes sparkling.

Padawan Tachi’s eyes light up with interest at that remark, and Fay truly does find the girl’s enthusiasm quite endearing. Knight Gallia sighs softly, and Fay thinks perhaps the young knight finds her a little trying on her patience. Which is unfortunate, as Fay is quite taken with the diplomat as well.

They turn the corner, and down the short hall which is angled…improvisationally, a Master also rounds the opposite corner, and Fay has just taken note of the nice cinnamon shade of his hair when he spots _her_.

Blue-grey eyes widen, and his handsome face pales sharply. He freezes, turns on heel, and hurries back the other way.

“Oh, _hello_, I do not think so.” Fay murmurs, irresistibly intrigued by that mesmerizing glimpse she got of his Force presence before he hid it away, and takes off after him.

“Master Fay!” Knight Gallia barks.

Fay doesn’t run down the hall so much as dance through the space between herself and her quarry, like skipping on light, and skids around the corner. The next corridor is long, and occupied, and he has quiet cleverly vanished from sight and sense…except…. Fay breathes in deep, closes her eyes, and reaches _inside_ herself, to where the world expands into the infinite.

_In the Force, all things are one_.

He has hidden himself well – better, perhaps, than anyone Fay has met in the last thousand years – but there is something… Fay lets her body move, trusting the Force utterly, and she walks, and the walk becomes a rhythm, and the rhythm is leading her… to _herself_.

Fay stops, and opens her eyes. He’s a dozen strides ahead of her, perhaps, and he has stopped as well, his back to her, but his face turned down and to the side. He turns thouhtfully, and meets her gaze, one hand raised absently to his center. He doesn’t move as she strides up to him – not, at least, until she is in his personal space, and she quite neatly walks him until his back hits a wall, and they are nearly nose to nose with each other.

She lifts a hand, her fingers overlapping his, and presses lightly against his sternum.

“You’re carrying an echo of me that I never gave you.” Fay accuses softly, more curious than anything else. She can’t feel him, but she _can_ feel the essence of herself, impressed upon him like dye on silk, almost imperceptible, but undoubtedly _there_. She presses her palm flat to his chest, teasing out the feel of that impression.

_Too late…you _will_ escape…you _will_ live…and I go to join our brothers and sisters…finally._

It’s her voice, and the taste of salt, her serenity overlapping his sorrow, both of them bound immutably to duty.

_Oh_, Fay wonders, _what did I do to you?_

He lifts his chin a little, a pinched look around his eyes, and a faint, rueful quirk to his lips. Oh, she _likes_ this one.

“That you haven’t given me yet.” He murmurs the confession, undoubtedly aware that she won’t fall for a lie or an evasion, and unravels so much _possibility_.

Fay’s dark lips quirk, as she is truly intrigued, and she presses lightly against the space in the Force where he _should_ be.

Nothing slips away, elusive and mysterious, there is just…. _absence_. And then there isn’t, and he bleeds back into existence, his presence all scorching wind and brilliance, like sunshine on shimmering sand; for a moment, before it shifts into something quieter and less remarkable.

“What _are_ you?” Fay questions, leaning in to peer into his eyes, and he leans back – as much as he can, at least, pinned to the wall as she has him.

A loud, pointed cough.

Fay and her mystery man both blink, and turn. There is a red-haired padawan eyeing them both awkwardly, and behind him is Knight Gallia and Padawan Tachi, both with their arms crossed and one brow lilted up in stern query.

“Master?” The red-haired padawan inquires dubiously, looking a bit like _he_ was the one caught out.

Fay looks at him.

Fay looks at him and blinks.

Grins.

“Oh, now _that_ is cheating.”


	3. Chapter 3

Obi-Wan glances quizzically between the golden-haired master and his master, and the utter lack of space between the two.

“What?” He asks, confused, and she takes a step forward, her lovely face lit with delight, and Master Ben seems to lurch, darting out a hand to grab her arm, holding her up.

“Kindly _don’t_.” He mutters lowly, blue-grey eyes very serious when she turns to look at him. She looks at him, mist-grey eyes playful but wise, and after a beat seems to recognize something in his face.

“Oh.” She remarks, glancing back at Obi-Wan. “I see. Very well.” She smiles, like she knows such a wonderful secret.

“What?” Obi-Wan repeats, eyeing them both suspiciously now.

Master Ben eels and edges out from behind her. “Don’t mind Fay, Obi-Wan.” Master Ben says. “She takes some getting used to.”

“_Fay_?” Obi-Wan lifts a brow, his tone implying much. Master Ben offers him a short look.

“Did you just _run away_?” Knight Gallia finally steps in, eyeing Master Ben with disgruntled bafflement. And then Master Fay, with suspicion.

“We have a history.” _Master_ Fay says brightly, stepping up beside Master Ben and leaning into his space. Obi-Wan’s master looks exceedingly long-suffering. “One I can’t wait to catch up on.”

“Don’t say it like _that_.” Master Ben sighs.

“How _should_ I say it?” Master Fay retorts, looking too pleased with herself as she crosses her arms.

“Do you ever get a headache?” Siri whispers, and Obi-Wan twitches, because he had not felt her step up next to him. She smirks a little and ribs him with an elbow. “Dealing with…. that.” She gestures vaguely to his master.

“I’ve gotten used to it.” Obi-Wan mutters, watching the quiet push-pull going on between the two masters and Knight Gallia’s thinly worn patience. “Who _is_ Master Fay?” He asks, having glimpsed the golden-haired master in Knight Gallia’s presence a few times in the last month.

“Master Yoda’s _grandmaster_.” Siri whispers excitedly. “She’s been wandering the outer rim for _centuries_, and she says she’s here now to help Master Adi.”

“Your master looks thrilled.” Obi-Wan remarks wryly, then pauses. “Wait, Master _Yoda’s_ grandmaster? But she – _look_ at her.”

“She’s gorgeous.” Siri agrees, glancing at the older woman with a little envy, one hand nervously coming up to tug at her own fluffy blonde hair, still growing back out and doing so in as disorderly a manner as possible, her multi-colored padawan braid still tucked behind her ear until her own is long enough to suffice. 

“Masters.” Knight Gallia steps in with dignity. Both Master Ben and Master Fay look to her and pause, before collecting themselves into something better resembling calm, somber adults. Obi-Wan stops himself from rolling his eyes, mostly because Master Ben glances at him as if to _check_ that he didn’t just roll his eyes.

Siri doesn’t bother, which isn’t fair. She’s a _diplomat’s_ apprentice, and she gets away with it.

‘_You’re being ridiculous_.’ Obi-Wan sends his Master’s way.

‘_This is hardly my fault_.’ Master Ben replies, and Obi-Wan frowns to catch a sense of turmoil to his Master’s mind. ‘_I did not expect… her_.’

‘_Bad break up_?’ Obi-Wan inquires lightly, projecting a sense of reassurance down the bond.

‘_Padawan_.’ Obi-Wan can feel that sigh, ruffling across his thoughts. ‘_Did you need something_?’ His master changes the subject, which is a clear directive to drop the issue.

And Obi-Wan does.

For now.

He might mention it to Healer Kala later though.

“We received a letter.” Obi-Wan reports aloud, and Siri gives him a strange look for the odd non-sequitur, not having been privy to the mental conversation.

His master reaches for his belt to check his comm, and Obi-Wan shakes his head lightly. “Not a holo.” Obi-Wan says. “An _actual_ letter. And you aren’t carrying your comm.” Obi-Wan reminds him, and his master pauses, fingers still searching the belt.

“Ah, I forgot about that.” Master Ben mutters. Knight Gallia gives him an unimpressed glance at that, and Obi-Wan gives Siri a look for her master’s judgement. The tholotian wasn’t even a part of this conversation. Siri huffs at him, because clearly, that is beyond her influence.

Master Ben wasn’t carrying his comm-link, because he had taken it apart, and Obi-Wan knew this, because he’d watched him do it with no small amount of fascination. His master had the idea to rebuild and embed the comm in the vambrace of his armor, but after a long day of side-long looks and a small lecture from Master Poof, they’d elected not to wear their armor in the Temple, no matter how proud it made Obi-Wan feel to have it.

He may still be unhappy with that decision, but he did understand that walking around their home looking ready to go to war was not exactly in line with the atmosphere of safety and serenity the Temple was meant to embody.

As such, his Master’s vambrace was sitting on their table in their quarters, and his comm-link, what was left of it, was there also.

“Do you have the letter with you?” His master inquires, observing Obi-Wan’s empty hands.

“No.” Obi-Wan says. “I didn’t want to ruin the presentation.”

His master tilts his head curiously at that, and Obi-Wan smirks a little. “You’ll see.”

~*~

Walking through the creche without Aayla tripping him up feels a lot like trespassing, somehow, but he can’t exactly _ignore_ the summons.

“Master Se’sannima?” Quinlan stops on the threshold to a reading room, where her clan of younglings is curled up on various cushions, plied with plush toys and soft blankets, practicing their Arubesh and Basic on small study tables.

“Excellent pronunciation, Padawan Vos.” The twi’lek master smiles, rising from one small circle of her youngest crechelings. “Dragon Clan, how about we break for snack time while I speak with Padawan Vos?”

“Yes, Master Se!” Her clan chants back, the room instantly abuzz with energy as they hurry up from their little nests and go line up eagerly next to Master Se’s droid assistant, which disperses the snack appropriate for each youngling after they ask with the proper manners.

Quinlan shuffles a little, keeping his back straight and his eyes up, and falls in step with Master Se, stepping out into the corridor.

They stop, and Quinlan crosses his arms. Master Se’s lekku wave a little.

“You aren’t in trouble, Padawan Vos.” She remarks patiently.

Quinlan stiffens, and then relaxes sheepishly. “Oh.” He mutters.

“However…” She tilts her head, smiling ruefully. “If you could perhaps assist me on one small matter?” She inquires.

“…What matter?” Quinlan asks, suspicious and preparing to draw back.

“Someone seems to have introduced my clan to the phrase ‘_fripping frip’_.” Master Se smiles cheerily, in the way of someone long inured to such grievances. “And then, to cover their mistake, led my clan to believe that this was a _positive_ descriptor. So now _everything_ is _fripping frip_. _Master Se_ is fripping frip.” She recites with a bright humor. “_Story time _is fripping frip. _Push-Ball_ is fripping frip. You see where I’m going with this?”

“It wasn’t _me_.” Quinlan insists, proud of himself for not smirking at her predicament. It _wasn’t_ him. He’s fairly certain it _was_ Padawan Muln.

“I make no accusations.” Master Se lifts a placating hand, lekku humming lightly. “I understood that there were likely to be…. some _incidents_, but it’s rare to get padawans so involved in the creche, and I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. However, I’m sure you can imagine how well their new favorite phrase is going to go over with Master B’una.” She lifts a tattooed brow, and Quinlan tips his head in a grimace of acknowledgement. Yes, that would go over _so_ well.

“And I’m here because….?”

“Because Padawan Vos is the _most_ fripping frip.” She says, thickly amused.

Quinlan chokes a little. He has been described as ‘fripping’ Vos before, but not like _that_. He’s torn between laughing and feeling mortified.

“Ah _kri_\- please tell me Aayla hasn’t caught on to that?” He pleads.

“I couldn’t say, but most of the damage seems to be confined to Dragon Clan.” Master Se informs him gamely, lips twitching at his quick self-censorship. “So… can I rely upon your assistance?”

Quinlan huffs, drumming his fingers. “I’ll see what I can do.” He promises, nodding. Master Se smiles at him, and Quinlan resists the urge to squirm at her regard – or lash out, for no reason other than because sometimes kindness feels like a threat, like a _trap_ \- because he doesn’t get a lot of nice looks these days. And he certainly doesn’t get invitations to assist with…_anything_.

He and his master haven’t even been allowed on missions since his Fall, which Quinlan _understands_, when he isn’t passionately bitter about it. Master Tholme is at least good at keeping him occupied, though Quinlan is going to finish his schooling far in advance of his peers at this rate, and when Tholme isn’t enough, Quinlan has Aayla, and his friends. But they have their own lessons and missions and responsibilities, and sometimes Quinlan is just… left to himself.

It’s not a good place to be, and sometimes he feels so furiously _stuck_, that everything just seems…. overwhelming and pointless.

Quinlan has his bad days. Those are the worst.

He doesn’t know why Master Se seems to like him, but she’s remarkably tolerant of Master Naasade too, so maybe there’s something to that.

“That’s a relief to hear, Padawan Vos.” Master Se says, clasping her hands together. “Shall we?” She invites, turning back towards the reading room.

“Lead the charge.” Quinlan drawls. Her lekku twitch with amusement, and Quinlan saunters after her, back into the reading room.

~*~

“_Breha_ Antilles...” Ben breathes out, regarding the delightful presentation awaiting him in their quarters.

Delicate white flowers perched in a deco frame of blue and amber glass, all straight lines and delicate angles, in some place the strands as fine as gossamer; the flowers held in place in the frame by the pressure of the shimmering silver card in the center.

_Jedi Master Ben Naasade_

_&_

_Padawan Learner Obi-Wan Kenobi_

The card was addressed in white ink on the silver face.

“Who is Bre- wait, _Queen_ Breha? Of _Alderaan_?” Obi-Wan inquires, edging up next to his master. Ben looks at his padawan in surprise, and then recalls that Obi-Wan was familiar with Bail – but not with Bail’s other half.

Yet.

“Yes.” Ben says simply. Obi-Wan crosses his arms and gives his master a short look, and Ben is momentarily distracted by the fact that his padawans sleeves are perhaps a _smidge_ too short when he does so. Resignedly, Ben makes note that his padawan appears to be hitting _another_ growth spurt.

“It’s an invitation.” Ben explains, knowing that more information was always soothing to Obi-Wan’s irritation.

Almost always.

His padwan was still all but brimming with suspicions regarding his mysterious ‘history’ with Master Fay, and Ben was not going to be very illuminating on that subject until he’d actually had a chance himself to _speak_ with Master Fay.

So… distractions.

“From the _Queen of Alderaan_.” His padawan emphasizes. “How do you know the Queen of Alderaan?”

“I know plenty of people.” Ben mutters, stroking his beard as he admired the beautiful setting of the card. “And I know the Queen of Alderaan, padawan mine, the same way you do.”

“_I_ know the Queen of Alderaan?” Obi-Wan says skeptically, brow furrowed.

“She’s Bail’s lover. Well, strictly speaking, I think it’s more appropriate to say that Bail is _her_ lover. Soon to be fiancé. This, if I am not mistaken, is an invitation to an engagement party. Right on time.” Ben smiles, thinking Bail’s birthday was not long past. Ben didn’t have much in the way of material wealth to spend on lavish gifts, so he had instead painstakingly illuminated a copy of one of Bail’s favorite Alderaani Epics on a swathe of silk that Shmi had helped him acquire. It had taken him the better part of a ten-day and no small amount of swearing. Obi-Wan had helped him on the finer details when Ben’s hands shook for cramping.

“This, padawan, is why it is beneficial to pursue at least one artistic study.” Ben had muttered, fretting over the silk. Obi-Wan had rolled his eyes, but nodded dutifully, which was exactly as a good padawan should do.

Bail’s soft awe had been all the reward Ben needed.

“So…it’s the Queens responsibility to send the invitations?” Obi-Wan inquires.

“Not exactly.” Ben replies. “On Alderaan, it’s traditional for the engaged to invite the guests on behalf of their significant other – sort of a display of the acceptance and drawing together of not only those to be wed, but of all those whom they care for as well. So Breha will invite Bail’s guests, and Bail will invite Breha’s.”

“That sounds lovely and complicated.” Obi-Wan remarks.

“Oh, you can’t imagine. I wish Bail all the luck in getting the guest list correct.”

“Wait, he has to guess?”

“It’s assumed that if they are prepared to wed, it is simply something he will _know_.” Ben smirks. “But no, he will not have to guess. They’ll have discussed it thoroughly already.”

“Good.” Obi-Wan says, relieved. “So how do you pull the card out?” He asks, eyeing the display. “I was afraid we’d end up breaking the glass.”

“I don’t think so.” Ben murmurs, moving to sit down on the sofa, to study the decorative frame more closely. “If Breha was being clever - and I have never known her not to be - we’ll have to use the Force.”

Obi-Wan slides around the edge of the table, leaning forward on his elbows, his presence thoughtful. Ben lifts his gaze and watches his padawan as he applies himself to the problem. Obi-Wan leans in close, his pupils widening.

“The card is in layers.” The padawan murmurs, his voice a little hazy. He blinks, and looks up at his master. “It’s in layers.” He repeats more clearly.

“Is it?” Ben smiles. “I thought it would be something like that. Shall we, padawan?”

Obi-Wan nods and settles himself, breathing in deep, gaze dropping back to the card. Ben observes the coiling power of his padawans focus for a moment, feeling proud beyond measure, and then joins him.

Slowly, like dawn coming up, like a bird stretching its wing, they part and unfold the delicate cuts of silver paper, drawing them through the filaments of colored glass. As the card comes away, the flowers come apart, and the delicate white petals fall like snow.

“Wow.” Obi-Wan smiles, a thing of innocent joy at the simple beauty of it, and Ben finds himself smiling too, though he keeps part of his focus on making sure the card comes back together correctly, as his padawan’s attention wavers.

The card stock, Ben realizes as it comes back together in his hand, is actual paper, thin and delicate and very carefully pressed, treated in some fashion so that once pressed together, the pieces cling and hold the desired shape rather than scattering apart.

"Well?" Obi-Wan inquires, leaning across the table.

Ben carefully turns over the card, admiring the detail in the lacey edges of the paper.

_I extend this invitation of behalf of my beloved, _

_and in the hopes that those he considers his friends,_

_ will consider a friend in I as well._

_To dearest Ben and Obi-Wan, _

_Bail and I would both take heart,_

_if you would join us on the announcement of our union, _

_and stand with us,_

_ in the eyes of all whom may rather we were parted than wed._

_With fondest regards,_

_~ Breha._

The dates and address were detailed at the bottom.

_Breha_, Ben notes, tracing over the signature with a careful thumb and a smile. He doesn't quite know what he's done in this life to earn such true affection, but that she offers only her name and none of her titles speaks volumes towards it, more so than all the flowery prose she ever could inscribe.

"Oh Master." Obi-Wan frets, deflating across the table.

"What is it?" Ben looks up, concerned.

"The _dates_." Obi-Wan says sorrily. "We promised the Council I would be here."

Ben checks the dates again.

"Ah." the master says, melancholy creeping up. "I suppose we did." Ben sighs, carefully setting the card on the table, dusting away some of the loose flower petals.

It truly was a beautiful invitation.

"_Master_." Obi-Wan says chidingly, tugging on their bond, drawing him out just as he began to pull into himself.

"I'll find a way to make our apologies to Bail." Ben acknowledges. "And find something to send them-"

"Master." Obi-Wan says again, exasperated and fond. "_You're_ still going, obviously."

"I promised you I wouldn't leave you on your own with the Council." Ben reminds his padawan.

"I can handle the Council just fine." Obi-Wan insists.

"That isn't what you said a week ago." Ben remarks dryly.

"Master." Obi-Wan flushes a little, embarrassed at being called out like that. "Bail is a _good_ friend. You'll have a hundred opportunities to stand by my side before the Council, i'm sure. You won't have a hundred opportunities to stand by him. I promise you, i'll be happier if you go. At least one of us should be enjoying ourselves."

"I'm very proud of you," Ben says, lifting a brow in his apprentice's direction. "And at the same time, you are making me feel bad. Abandoning you to Temple politics while I saunter off to Alderaan."

"Yes, well, I am telling you to go saunter off to Alderaan." Obi-Wan says cheekily.

"If you insist?" Ben asks again, studying his padawan for doubts.

"I insist." Obi-Wan says with feeling, and Ben finds none of the doubts he was looking for. A little stress, a little exasperation, a lot of a fondness, and a bright enthusiasm that nudged at him in the Force, saying _go-go-go_.

"Alright then." Ben concedes, apologetically relieved.

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes.

"We really have to get you out of that habit." Ben chides.

"_Master_."


	4. Chapter 4

“Absolutely not.”

Adi leans back a little and raises one refined brow. “Do you wish to try that again, Master Naasade?” She inquires levelly.

The red-haired master looks back at her just as sternly, his own arms crossed. “It’s entirely unnecessary, Knight Gallia.” He insists. “I’m attending an _engagement party_, not stopping an assassination. It hardly calls for a chaperone.”

“_Partner_.” Adi corrects, though internally comments that the man does deserve a chaperone, for all the trouble he causes. Although most of the time, his padawan fills that role quite well. In spite of her early misgivings, and though she still has doubts as to the sheer amount of stress and responsibility placed on that boy, Naasade and Kenobi made a fine team.

He sighs through his nose, impatient. “You hardly have the resources to spare, Knight Gallia. I will be _fine_.”

He pauses to wince almost the moment he says the words, and Adi grimaces with him, waiting for some warning to befall them in the Force.

It doesn’t, and for some reason, that makes Adi feel even worse.

“You are an experienced Master,” Adi acknowledges without grudge, “ but I have made that mistake before.” She says.

His countenance softens. “Knight Gallia, those losses are not your burden to bear.”

“Aren’t they?” Adi challenges, feeling grief like a stone beneath her breast.

Naasade steps closer, lifting his hands gently to her shoulders, making her feel like a padawan again, small and uncertain, and that wasn’t fair, because the man was all of an inch or two taller than her, and far too frustrating to seem so sage.

He dips his head, meeting her eyes with soft, sincere blue-grey ones.

“That was not fault, Adi.” He says firmly. “That was _malice_. Guilt you do not deserve will not serve you. You know now, you can fight now, but do not blame yourself for being deceived. The enemy has played this game for a very long time, and they are very good at it. We cannot simply _expect_ to be better than they are, but we _can_ learn to be.”

Adi takes a deep breath through her nose and sighs, settling herself. She looks at him flatly. “I did not give you permission to be so familiar.” She remarks. He huffs a little, _amused_ at her rebuff, but pulls back respectfully nonetheless. Adi gathers herself a little, bolstering her own spirit. “But I think I would like to, Master Naasade.” She adds quietly.

His expression furrows, speculative, and he draws back a little. “You don’t even _like_ me, Knight Gallia.” He remarks, quite accurately.

“But I _do_ respect you.” She points out evenly, unhindered by this. “Quite a great deal.” She adds more quietly.

His expression falters, something sad and vulnerable in his eyes as he looks at her like he’s seeing someone else, before it clears away into warm regard and gratitude.

“I would be honored, Adi Gallia.” He murmurs, bowing shallowly and looking up at her through his lashes with a charm and inflection that could drive her to blush where she less disciplined a woman. When he straightens, there is a gleam of mischief in his eyes that tells her he knows _exactly_ how charming he is, and the pull of his smile is perhaps too self-indulgent. “I truly hope you know that I hold you in equal esteem, and I would find it a pleasure if you would call me Ben.”

“_Ben_.” Adi says in her driest, flattest tone. “You aren’t going to Alderaan alone.”

His charm withers, and he sighs. Adi counts it a personal victory. He eyes her twitch of a smirk with his own brand of exasperation, and Adi thinks that their relationship is evolving beautifully at this point.

“We’ve been over this.” He runs a hand over his hair, smoothing back a few stray strands.

“We have.” Adi replies with emphasis.

“I have survived far worse than a pleasant visit to Alderaan completely left upon my own resources for _years_, Knight Gallia.” Ben argues. “I will even be travelling _with_ Senator Organa on his envoy home. I could not be safer.”

“You would be safer with a _partner_.” Adi retorts.

“And anyone you assign to be my partner would serve the Order and the Galaxy far better if they were attending to an actual mission, and _not_ to my personal affairs.” 

Adi knows he’s right, but she cannot help having her reservations. She grits her teeth, knowing it’s a terrible habit. Her hair pods tense and twitch with stress and Adi takes another settling breath in through her nose. Everything felt so very dire, these days, and Adi felt so very tired, waiting on edge for the consequences of her every choice to play out, rolling the dice against fate and praying to the Fore that they landed on her side.

“If you _die_,” Adi warns, “I’m turning your padawan into a diplomat.”

“He’d thrive, I’m sure.” Ben quips back at her, and smirks. “Though I’m not so certain how the _rest_ of the galaxy would do.”

Adi pauses, and thinks of Kalee, and Correllia, and Mandalore.

She glares at the boys’ master, and the man has the gall to _laugh_.

~*~

“You think they’d let grown adults handle real lightsabers.” Ral Sei’lar growls, glaring distastefully at the training saber in his hand.

“You’re still an initiate.” Cladu points out simply. “Adult or not.”

“As opposed to you, who’s a _real_ padawan now?” Ral sneers, and Cladu shrinks back a little, the nautolan archivist still of a nervous temperament, made worse by the bothan’s aggressive demeanor.

“That’s uncalled for.” Iara says, moving to lay a supportive hand against Cladu’s arm and giving the black-furred bothon a dirty look. “You’ll get a real lightsaber when you’re taken as a padawan.”

“_If_.” Ral mutters darkly. “I’m beginning to feel like this entire endeavor was a joke.”

“Well, perhaps if you were less….” Iara trails off, feeling guilty for the thought.

“Less _me_?” Ral snorts.

“Less waspish.” Initiate Techi, a mahogany skinned arconan interjects, tossing his training saber hilt from hand to hand.

“Less what?” Ral and Iara both inquire.

“Waspish. Like a wasp.” He says, small mouth twitching humorously. “They’re an aggressive type of stinging insect, and they’ll attack you for the insult of simply standing too close.”

Cladu snorts, and Ral bristles.

The bothan steps forward aggressively, and the arconan just shrugs, not bothering to be intimidated. “I’m just saying it how I see it... and you aren’t exactly proving me wrong.”

“Hey, no fighting!”

The group of advanced initiates, who, despite their wildly different personalities, had taken to gravitating together for training and meals, all startle at the unexpected and abrupt appearance of two younglings underfoot. The boy’s are human, wearing yellow-and-white youngling tunics, though the blue-eyed one has a black wrap around his chest.

“We weren’t.” Ral retorts. The brown-eyed boy gives him a placid, utterly unconvinced look, and the bothon bristles again.

“Ani? Jax?” The familiar voice of Shmi Skywalker calls, and the woman herself strides across the salles towards their group.

“Amu, we found them!” The boy – which must be Anakin Skywalker – shouts towards her. “They were _fighting_, and not in the accept-a-ble way.” The boy stumbles over the word a little, his accent pushing on the vowels.

“We were not!” Ral snaps.

“You were _looking_ for a fight.” Cladu points out, not quite beneath his breath.

“Shut up.” Ral mutters, and Shmi Skywalker pins him with a sharp look, one that roves over all of them in quick assessment before dropping to the boys.

“Is that so?” She inquires. Anakin points to Jax, and Jax nods knowingly.

Shmi looks back up at the adults, lifting a scolding brow that feels too motherly to be coming from a woman who is in fact younger than half of them. “In that case, perhaps it would be best if you and Jax went elsewhere. Perhaps Kazdan has a new project you could assist him with.”

“But _Amu_…” The boy whines. “You said we could watch!”

Shmi evaluates the two boys, and Iara glances at her companions. They hadn’t been expecting Padawan Skywalker today.

“The choice is yours.” Shmi finally concedes. “But you should leave if you get upset.”

Anakin frowns, his nose scrunching up, but Jax nods solemnly, tugging on the other boys sleeve. Shmi returns her attention to the rest of them. “I have been told that you are reluctant to approach Knights and Padawans to test your skills in training?” She remarks, her words not entirely a question.

Iara blushes, and Cladu shifts nervously.

“It’s…awkward.” Iara remarks, having felt it too childish a concern to bring up with Master Yoda in their training. So long as she was learning from her master, surely it was enough? 

“It’s embarrassing.” Techi corrects, rubbing at his narrow chin. “A senior padawan is a decade younger than me and ten times as skilled. There’s only so much I can take. And asking a knight my own age?” He shakes his wedge-shaped head.

“It is a challenge.” Shmi nods, and then tilts her head, regarding them. “Yet without being challenged, you cannot overcome. Furthermore, it is difficult to find a teacher if a teacher cannot find _you_.”

“Easy for you to say.” Ral scoffs.

Shmi looks to him with sharp eyes, and nods in understanding, and then she takes a breath. “Challenge me.” She says directly.

Iara and Cladu share a wide look, Techi blinks, and Ral hesitates. Shmi Skywalker’s brow draws together a little, into a sharp line. “Or am I not a worthy opponent, Initiate Sei’lar?”

The bothan glances down at her lightsabers. Everyone has seen the dual hilts – no one has actually witnessed her wielding them. Shmi unclips one and holds it out, the grip to him.

“To make it fair.” She insists levelly.

Ral snatches the hilt with a scowl and nods.

“Amu!” Anakin pipes up, outraged. “He’s the _mean_ one!”

“And I said you could leave if you found the exercise to be upsetting, Anakin.” Shmi replies camly to the boy, who trails after her and Ral as they walk towards more open space. “Though I am certain Initiate Sei’lar would not behave in any untoward manner. We are merely here to test and improve our skills and allow others to observe them.”

“I think he should be more careful who he picks a fight with.” Techi murmurs, stepping up between Cladu and Iara. “He got on her when we first arrived, didn’t he?”

“He gets on everyone.” Cladu replies, head tentacles flexing thoughtfully. There are a few masters in the salles with them – there are always asters in the salles – and a few dozen knights and padawans. Some take interest of the group off in the corner, but they are a little out of the way to draw too much attention.

“You don’t think she’s trying to get back at him?” Iara questions, disbelieving. Padawan Skywalker was a reserved woman, but there was something Iara found to be infinitely gentle about her.

Techi shrugs. “Maybe she isn’t petty enough to go for revenge, but I think she _is_ about to make a point.” The arconan narrows his eyes towards the pair as they face off, blinking and squinting – his species, as a whole, did not have terribly good visible sight.

“Sei’lar’s better than most of our lot with a lightsaber.” Cladu points out. “You don’t think we should be a little concerned about Padawan Skywalker?”

The pair of duelists ignite their blades, one a shining white, the other a burning desert yellow.

“Woah.” Techi blinks. “Those are different.”

They’ve drawn more than casual glances now. Shmi turns to her boys, and gestures for them to back up and rejoin the group, so as to stay at a safe distance. Anakin tosses his hands in childish exasperation and Jax bounces on his heels, but they dash back away from the duelists.

“Anakin.” Iara asks. “Your mother is a good duelist, isn’t she?”

The boys blink up at her, and Iara finds it hard to believe that Jax isn’t Shmi Skywalker’s by blood. “Master Ti says amu has a lot to work on.” He says politely.

“Oh.” Iara frets, and Jax nods in agreement.

“But he should be safe. She worked really hard on Shili, and got a _lot_ better.” Anakin adds, eyes glued to his mother as she steps back and offers a shii-cho salute to her opponent.

The advanced initiates glance down at the boy in confusion.

“_He_ should be safe?”

Anakin nods absently.

“_Anakin_-“

“Shh!” The boy shushes them with annoyance. “We’re watching!”


	5. Chapter 5

_He is uncertain_, Shmi thinks, observing her opponent carefully, trusting her instincts to know where and when the blow will come, and leaning into a faith she has held all her life - though she has called it by many names; _Intuition, Ekkreth, Ar-Amu, the Force_ \- to avoid and deflect and block such blows, though the last response is still new to her, and novel. Slaves, after all, did not have the right to defend themselves.

She saw it clearly when he ignited her blade. He is uncertain, not only of his course of action here and now, but of his path, and of himself. He is uncertain, and perhaps he is even afraid.

And so he hides it under aggression, under dominance, under anger.

There is a doubt inside him he cannot fight, and so he fights everything else.

He scared her, when first they met, and all she could see was the anger, and the potential to cause her harm. She is less afraid now, and sees him more clearly.

She has known fellow slaves not unlike him, who lashed out and struggled and attacked those around them because they could not attack Depur. They rarely survived well, or for long.

Shmi could do nothing for them.

But perhaps she _can_ help this one.

Shmi is better with her lightstaff than with the single blade, but even still her skill takes him off guard, and makes his own efforts seem sloppy.

No.

Not her skill – her _violence_.

Shaak Ti has helped her improve leaps and bounds, pruning her instincts, changing her muscle memory, challenging that desperate _fight-kill-survive_ response born of a lifetime of abuse. It is a struggle – the instinct is _powerful_ – but she has been dedicated, and together they have progressed so that when the instinct arises, she hesitates. It may not seem like much, but that hesitation, just a heartbeat long, is enough to give her time to _think_, is enough to save a life she does not want to take.

Still, she may no longer dive for a quick finality to any attack, but she does not have the reserve in combat that Jedi tend to. She fights brutally, forcefully, and, as Knight Arkona had put it – _dirty_. She does not constrain herself to form and style. Shmi uses whatever she must use to win, and as a result fights with all the relentless dominance of Djem So, the unpredictability of Force-guided Shii-Cho, and the flowing improvisation of Niman. Shaak Ti was concerned at her lack of defense and her often sloppy guard, but did not try to make Shmi follow a form that did not fit her natural prowess.

Initiate Ral Sei’lar was also a forwardly aggressive combatant, but in the choice between attacking and defending himself, he chose defense, even when she left her guard open. He would not take a blow to score one.

So he was aggressive, yes, but knew little of self-sacrifice.

_Some victories cannot be won without suffering_, Shmi thinks critically. _And he is not willing to suffer_.

Shmi disengages her lightsaber.

“_Amu_!” Anakin screeches, and can feel Jax’s sharp spike of anxiety like needles in the Force.

Initiate Sei’lar hesitates.

“Are you finished, Initiate Sei’lar? Have you won?” Shmi challenges sharply, still holding the unlit hilt in the ready position. He’s breathing roughly, and Shmi has a sheen of sweat on her brow from the adrenaline alone, as always when she fights. Her heart pounds, but her lungs are steady in rhythm, and her body sound.

He lunges, and Shmi throws her hilt in his face. He jerks, the yellow blade turning awry; Shmi lurches to avoid it, and then gives her off-balance opponent a full body shove to the floor.

Shmi stands over him, gently stopping the lightsaber he dropped, the blade winking out, with her foot.

He looks up at her bitterly.

Shmi tilts her head, feeling calm.

“No one is going to hand you your victories, Ral Sei’lar.” Shmi tells him. “The things we want are not so easily won.” She offers him a hand up, and he rebuffs her, shoving himself to his feet.

“You are angry.” She remarks.

He sneers at her. “I just got my tail handed to me by rim-trash.”

It’s hardly the worst thing Shmi has ever been called.

“Core-bred dainties _tend_ to get their tails handed to them by rim-trash.” Shmi replies evenly, lifting a scolding brow. She may pride herself on her manners – but she is no stranger to insult, either.

He bristles, heavy fists clenching, and Shmi does not flinch.

“You are not angry at me.” Shmi continues. “You are merely taking your anger out on me. You take it out on everything.”

“What do _you_ know.” He snaps, lowering his voice and glancing edgily around. They had drawn spectators, after all, from the rest of the salles. “We’re finished here, right?” He adds, turning to rejoin his peers.

“We are not.” Shmi says firmly.

His entire body tenses and he turns back with a dark look on his face.

“I know that that kind of anger is exhausting.” Shmi says more softly. “And I know that you cannot simply stop being angry any more than you can stop breathing.”

Anger was many things, a lesson that Shmi believed many Jedi misunderstood. It was destructive, yes, but that was not all it was. Anger was the root of bitterness, of hate. It was also the root of righteousness.

And _feeling_ anger, Shmi knew, was not always the same as _being_ angry. A _feeling_ passed, but _being_ angry…it settled into a person, anchored itself in the mind and the marrow, and grew like scar tissue – it could cover a wound, or it could turn cancerous.

“So what’s your advice?” Sei’lar grits out snidely. “Pretend? Is that what you do?”

“Stop fighting against the things you want.” Shmi says calmly. “And start for fighting for them. You either control your anger, or it controls you – and that is not to say you can simply push it away. It is, and it will be – so use it more productively.”

His anger bleeds into frustration, and frustration into confusion. “That isn’t what they teach.” He mutters.

“No.” Shmi replies honestly. “But it is, I believe, what they meant to.”

He sighs roughly, and there is self-loathing in that sound. Shmi studies him, this person whose life she can never understand and whom could never understand hers and finds it… poetic, perhaps, that they must still learn the same lessons.

“Do you want to be a Jedi?” Shmi asks him.

“Yes.” He huffs.

Shmi nods. “Then stop waiting for someone to tell you you can be, and _be_ a Jedi.”

~*~

“Do you not have more worthwhile things to do?” Ben inquires, crossing his arms.

“The little one is in class, the stern one is dancing rings around that young councilor, my grandpadawan is avoiding me, and there is only so much data-mining I can do into the curiously sinister devolvement of our people before I get _depressed_.” Fay replies succinctly, waiting for him outside his quarters. “_And_ our dear diplomat refuses to take me with her to the Senate until my history of record is up to date. Apparently, you can’t just disappear for six hundred years and then reappear before a galactic government as a subject matter expert and representative of the Jedi Order. That is a _lot_ of reports. So, no, nothing particularly more worthwhile at the moment.”

“So you’re avoiding paperwork.” Ben snorts softly, and steps up to his door to find that his padawan has coded him out again.

“You know, I don’t think it’s actually been _paper_work in over twelve hundred years.” Fay remarks, watching him scowl at the door-key with interest. “Problem?”

“Oh, I’ve been locked out.”

“Of your own quarters?”

“It happens.” Ben replies. “My padawan is getting quite good at it, actually.” Ben types in his work-around with a little more force to his touch. It doesn’t actually help him outwit the new cyberware, but it does make him feel better.

“Does he have a disagreement with you?” Fay asks.

“No.” Ben replies lightly. “Or…not at the moment, I believe. This is just something we do to each other from time to time.”

“Odd.” Fay shrugs, blowing a strand of golden hair away from her eyes.

Ben finally manages an override, and the door swicks open. “Ah, excellent.” He breathes in relief. “I suppose I should invite you in.”

“How courteous of you.” Fay lifts a brow, and saunters into his quarters. She smiles easily at the trailing, luminescent vines and the colorful beaded pillows from Anakin’s collection. She pauses over the slightly discolored mark in the floor where it had been repaired, but doesn’t comment. “Are you going to offer me tea as well?” She teases.

“Do you have a preference?” Ben inquires dryly, stepping into the kitchen.

“Whatever you’re in the mood for.” She replies easily. It’s an interesting reply. One Ben has learned to take note of from dealing with politicians. Tea is a comfort as well as a courtesy, and your tastes were surprisingly revealing. Padme had had a system for selecting teas based on how she wanted a conversation to go. Energetic teas for pleasant visits. Calming ones for stressful situations. Sharp ones for sharp attention. Tart blends for short conversations, and bitter blends for mindful ones. Ben had made a game of trying to tease out the code, and Padme had made a game of trying to thwart his analytical skills.

Bail’s system had been very different. He kept a collection of floral teas from Alderaan, and the strength of the blend was directly proportionate to how much he was longing for home.

Ben’s tea cupboard, however, was a hap-hazardous home to the varied tastes and preferences of four people with widely different palettes, and he could and would grab loose-leaf at random and throw it in the pot. Ben sets the kettle to simmer, looks over the counter, to wear she has sprawled herself in repose across his sofa, and sighs.

“Ask.”

“Have you told _anyone_?” Fay inquires, studying him with those shimmering mist grey eyes.

“The Council. My Soul Healer. Padawan Vos, though that was… unfortunate.”

“I didn’t ask if anyone knew you were a _time traveler_. I asked if you had _told_ anyone.”

“Told them…?”

“The history that you are unwriting? _All_ of it.” Fay says softly. “Not just what they need to know, or want to know, but everything that _you_ know, that no one else _ever_ will.”

“I have a holocron, and it has…most of it.”

“That answer was, in fact, a _no_.” Fay says chidingly, and Ben gives her a short look and pours the tea, bringing her a cup. She sits up, accepting it with poise. “The distant past is not so different from the untouchable future, you know.” She murmurs, offering him a commiserating look.

“I believe that.” Ben nods, and takes a sip. He pauses, his skin prickling. He has no real idea what he put in the teapot, but it has had some very interesting results. There is an earth-tart taste from some of Shaak’s stash, the sharp sap tang of Obi-Wan’s medicinal gimmer tea – which he had not meant to touch – and what he could almost swear was… chocolate?

“Well, that is certainly…new.” Fay remarks, tracing a finger over the rim of her cup. She gives him an amused look. “And I do _not_ say that often.”

Ben smirks wryly and takes another drink. It hits the back of his palette and almost tingles. Not entirely unpleasantly. Ben muses over it, considering.

He startles when Fay lays a hand against his shoulder. “You’re too young.” She says thoughtfully.

“Beg pardon?” Ben inquires, feeling very far from _young_. Though he supposes… he’s not yet even forty. Perhaps that _is_ young. But perhaps she means something else entirely, parsing his past from his actions in the present, and probably coming far closer to the truth in her speculations than anyone else dared to.

Fay meets his gaze, with a measure of somberness she seldom displays, and he can see, in the depths of them, that she comes to a decision. She lifts her hand to his cheek, threading her fingers into his scruff, running her thumb across his cheek, and turns aside all the questions she can already see will be answered with grief and suffering. Ben closes his eyes briefly, feeling fragile at the touch.

“_So_,” She says, drawing back her hand and taking another sip of tea, eyes turning playful above the rim of her cup. “ who _was_ your former master?” She inquires teasingly.

“Master Qui-Gon Jinn.” Ben replies, lips quirking. He can feel her projecting her positive energy throughout the room, a forge of calm and peace and cheer that balms the soul and soothes away anything ill in the air, and in his mind. He breathes in deep, and lets it soak into his skin.

“I haven’t had the pleasure.” Fay remarks. “Though I have met his new Padawan, I believe? The little orange one with the stripes in her hair? Ah…Sei-An Jacell?”

“Sian Jeisel.” Ben corrects. _Sigh-ahn Jigh-sell_.

Fay grins brightly against her cup. “Yes.” She nods. “She is an absolute _delight_.”

Ben nods in agreement, because the girl is quite – he pauses, catching sight of that gleam in Fay’s eyes.

“Fay.” Ben says carefully, turning his cup in his hands. “What did you _tell_ her?”

Fay quirks a golden brow. “Oh,” She muses loftily, “ not much more than _she_ told _me_.”


	6. Chapter 6

“If you are truly that put upon, padawan, you _can_ say no.” Master Ben offers, eyeing him as he kneeled on the floor of the dojo, hastily attempting to skim-read the articles he had been assigned for his Sociology of Political Systems II course, his master’s attention drawn by a stressed sigh. “A lot is being asked of you and you are allowed to say if it is too much.”

“Stepping in as a substitute instructor for two two-hour lessons isn’t going to break me, Master.” Obi-Wan looks up, bouncing his data-pad on his thighs with nervous energy. “They’re going to need what you have – _we_ have-“ Obi-Wan corrects wryly, still somewhat dubious as to his own expertise. “ – to teach them. For what’s coming.” Obi-Wan swallows.

He forgets, sometimes, about the Sith, and then when he remembers, everything around him seems slightly out of place, and a chill rolls down his spine, and he scolds himself for forgetting. They have to work harder, become better. _He_ has to. The Jedi aren’t prepared for the Sith.

Compared to his master, Obi-Wan thinks, all of them are pitifully, _laughably_ unprepared.

So this is important, and the coming delegations, the talks and new developments – they are so monumentally important.

He wishes his master was staying. That he’d be here from the outset. Obi-Wan believes that they could benefit so much from what his master has to say, his ideas, his experience. But the Council is still leery of his Master, and Obi-Wan fears that the Order at large will look upon him in the same light.

They’ll see him as a former shadow slightly too dark, too much a warrior and not enough a peacekeeper, with a mental state that is… not questionable, but perhaps precarious, with his TSR diagnosis, the incidents with Quinlan and Master Krell, and the history of complaints against his treatment of his padawan.

Which _still_ irritated Obi-Wan to no end.

So Obi-Wan will do his part, knowing what he knows, and hope that whatever influence he has will be enough. He rubs at the scar on his face, and blinks when his master crouches down in front of him, not having noticed him move.

“_Obi-Wan_.” His master says softly, and then pauses, just looking at him, and Obi-Wan lets his mind go blank, just looking back.

After a minute or so, his master smiles – one of those soft, self-depreciative, wry little smiles – and reaches over to tug on his padawan braid.

“You cannot imagine the faith I have in you.” His master says quietly, voice full of such warmth and trust that Obi-Wan can feel his ears reddening. His Master’s fingers slid from his braid and he cups his palm to the back of Obi-Wan’s skull, and presses their foreheads together, closing his eyes. “And I doubt you imagine how much I worry for you, either.” He huffs lightly, and Obi-Wan snorts softly, leaning into the gentle comfort and support of his master’s presence; letting his strength become Obi-Wan’s strength, settling his nerves and allowing calm and certainty to envelope him. “Your strength, capability, and dedication are worthy of admiration, padawan,” his master pulls back a little, opening his eyes and meeting his gaze again. “ but that does not mean you must do _everything_. I’ll feel much less selfish for leaving if you promise me to care for yourself, and to seek help when it becomes too much. You are not responsible for the fate of the galaxy _just_ yet, _Dral’solu_.”

_Bright One._

Obi-Wan huffs a laugh at his master’s touch of humor, still thinking that his master’s nickname for him was perhaps _too_ on the nose, but nods in real acknowledgement and understanding, assuring his master of his promise through their bond in the Force.

“I think I’ll leave the galaxy in far more capable hands, master.” Obi-Wan says wryly, glancing aside as the class begins to fill in. He fiddles with his datapad, turning it off and tucking it away, preparing to rise.

Master Ben helps him to his feet, and when Obi-Wan looks up, there is a very unreadable look in the older mans eyes that gives Obi-Wan pause, but then it’s gone, and his master is turning towards Master Drallig as the Battle Master strolls into the room.

“There’s the young lad!” Master Drallig remarks, clapping Master Ben on the shoulder and taking a look at Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan resists the urge to edge away from the Battle Master’s stern enthusiasm. “You should send him my way as a _student_ some time, Naasade, and I’ll round out all those skills you’ve drilled into him.”

“My master’s training isn’t deficient.” Obi-Wan says, not quite liking how that had been phrased.

“No, it isn’t.” Drallig returns, frowning briefly. “But that doesn’t I mean _I_ wouldn’t enjoy running such a promising pupil through the rings.”

_I know_. Obi-Wan responds silently to himself. _Which is why I’ve been avoiding you_.

His master’s training was _more_ than enough for him right now.

“Perhaps in the future.” Master Ben replies, to Obi-Wan’s relief. It’s a phrase that suggests much and promises little.

The class is comprised of mostly senior padawans and young knights, though Sian sneaks in on Luminara’s heels, and there are a few Master’s in attendance to ‘observe’. The only one Obi-Wan truly believes to be here as an observer is Master Windu, who stands apart from the rest – on the instructors side of the invisible divide in the dojo, as opposed to the learners.

“Hello there, tr-ainees.” Master Ben greets his students with a smile, though Obi-Wan thinks there is something disjointed in his address, as if he were about to say something else. He bows, and his class bows back.

“As you might have noticed, my padawan will be joining us today, as he will be filling in as Master Drallig’s co-instructor for your last two lessons.”

Many of the young knights in attendance share quick, uncertain looks. Obi-Wan glances at his Master, and the polite, affable smile Master Ben offers is one with which the padawan is _too_ familiar.

Obi-Wan sighs to himself, and sheds his grey robe, setting it carefully aside so as not to crack the datapad.

“Now, undoubtedly most of you have tried to apply these lessons to your combat training already- in spite of my direct instructions. I _know_, as I’ve heard it from the Healers. Those of you who should be presently wearing a brace, kindly fetch it and put it back on.”

A knight and two padawans shuffle, and everyone else patiently pretends they aren’t paying them any mind.

Except Master Windu, who frowns severely in their direction, making one padawan drop the boot brace they’d pulled from their robe.

“I gave you the mechanics of the technique, but we have not yet quite grasped how to adequately put them together. You are testing your understanding of space and dimension, challenging your bodies natural balance and orientation, and testing your ability to simply believe a thing can be done because you are _doing_ it. You cannot _think_ your way around this skill, you must simply _allow_ it to be.” His master lectures. He smirks. “So before you start attempting to back-flip mid-air,” he glances at Obi-Wan, who maintains an utterly placid expression, though Luminara and Sian also give him pointed looks, “ perhaps you could have patience with your instructor and start with something a little less ambitious.”

Perhaps his acrobatic displays had drawn some attention, Obi-Wan admits, but it had completely been his master’s idea to vault over the Keldabe Stronghold and onto a public stage _without_ _a jetpack_. That clip had been an instant holonet sensation.

“Padawan?” His master prompts. “Let’s aim for bruises over broken bones.”

Obi-Wan nods, takes a breath, and steps forward to address the class. “You have to get used to building structures in your mind – don’t think about materials, weight, gravity. As my Master said – you can’t _think_ your way through this. You have to simply do it – change the shape of the world, and _accept_ that this is your reality.” He takes another step forward.

Forward, and up. Another another, forward and up. “You can’t see a staircase.” Obi-Wan says, continuing to climb. “You can’t feel it. It has no supports, no mass, no structure. And yet the staircase exists, and I know it is real, because I am walking on it.”

He stops when he is about level with his master’s shoulder. “This is not levitation, I am not holding myself up with the Force like a doll on a string.” He repeats his masters turn of phrase from when he had taught Obi-Wan. “I am standing on solid ground. I am standing on the Force.” He takes another step up and strides over his masters head, to the mans other side, just a scant few inches of space between the soles of his boots and the man’s cinnoman hair.

‘_Those boots had better be clean, Padawan_.’ His master warns him. Obi-Wan smirks a little.

‘_Of course, Master_.’

“There _is_ a world beneath my feet.” Obi-Wan says, and then shrugs. “There _isn’t_ a world beneath my feet.” His support vanishes, and he drops down beside Master Ben and Master Drallig, landing on his heel with a thud.

“I think we’ll start with the staircase,” Obi-Wan says practically, “and then work our way towards something a little more challenging.”

“A _little_ more?” One of the master’s observing inquires. Obi-Wan looks to them with proper decorum and nods.

“The next challenge, once you can make the staircase real, is the _direction_ of the staircase.” Obi-Wan says. He smiles faintly. “And convincing yourself that there is no up, and there is no down.”

The master’s expression pinches a little, and Obi-Wan shares a look with Master Ben.

_‘They should have just signed up for the class_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: So I introduced my _ buir_ to fanfiction and now she reads my updates every morning with her cup of coffee and now she texts me her reactions in real time and we have something to talk about when I call home. That's good.   
Actually, that's _amazing_ for me.
> 
> Just learned today that she just introduced my _vod_ to my fanfiction and now i'm just like....er.....  
That'll be something.
> 
> ~ _Love you, Amu!_ ~


	7. Chapter 7

“Am I late?”

Lachas startles when the Jedi appears at his side, having still been frowning over the crew roster. The chef that was _supposed_ to accompany them had been replaced just that morning as their spouse had gone into early labor. Lachas didn’t fault them for their joy or complications and wished them all the best, but he preferred things to fall in line as they had been _meticulously_ planned to, and if _this_ chef was not up to par…

Lachas may, in fact, be a little stressed. Dealing with the intrigue around a junior senator and the Queen’s discreet lover was one thing; dealing with the intrigue around the Queen’s soon-to-be betrothed on the cusp of a Royal Engagement Ceremony?

Dealing with them as both a Senatorial Aid _and_ an Agent in the Royal Service?

Lachas has and will again mentally curse Third Brother often and with vehemence. As a precaution, Lachas had been distanced from the other agents currently working the Sith Investigation, and any of those he had been familiar with had been replaced so that his compromised status didn’t become theirs as well. In the course of that isolation, the Service had decided to separate those working on the investigation from those surrounding the Senator for his own welfare and protection. Which, at the moment, left Lachas short-handed on assistance in that regard.

To the point: he was _stressed_.

Still, he summons a quick smile and presses his datapad to his chest like any other young Aide under pressure. “Not at all, Master Naasade. The Senator has been delayed in his office.”

The Jedi offers him a sympathetic smile, hands tucked into the draping sleeves of his dark brown robe, which shimmered in a way garber-coth didn’t.

He looks kindly and dignified and utterly serene, and Lachas doesn’t buy it for a second. He’d seen the footage of the man in Mandalorian Armor, and received reports that he and the Mandalorian War-King Jango Fett had laid siege and then _waste_ to an entire base of some divergent Mandalorian sect.

Take in the fact that the man was wearing armor treated silks – _Concordian_ Silks, which were the very best of their kind – and that charming, soft, easy-going demeanor was nothing but candy wrapping on high explosives.

Lachas respects the Jedi, he does. Alderaan and the Jedi have a long-standing history of working side-by-side, one that still stands strong today; when the Order had announced that they would no longer receive government payment and billet for or during their services, Queen Breha had resolutely responded by announcing that the Jedi were always welcome on any Alderaani vessel and at any Alderaani table, should the need be present and the accommodations convenient in the course of their duties, and that shelter and medical care on Alderaan would always be available to them. Several systems had followed her lead.

However, none of that made dealing with them any less trying.

“The answer, then, is yes.” The Jedi says good humoredly. “Except that Bail is merely _later_ than I am.”

Lachas flashes another fixed smile. “If you say, Master Jedi.” He replies, glancing down to avoid meeting the Jedi’s eyes, as any nervous staff would do.

He senses another indulgent smile. “Is it alright that I wait out here for him? Going aboard in advance of his company would be rather forward I think, but I wouldn’t wish to make you nervous, ah…. Adjunct Bey, was it?”

This. 

This is why Lachas does not enjoy dealing with the Jedi. They are unnerving even at their best.

He knows for a fact that they have never been introduced. He knows for a fact that they have never even been in the same room together – he _knows_, because he _ensured_ this was so.

Some make the mistake of believing that the Jedi read minds – and some can, there _are_ true telepaths – or that they conduct underhanded and invasive investigations into those they meet, or might meet. But the truth was simpler and more annoying; the Jedi were observant - they were trained to be observant, self-aware, and conscientious from _infancy_ – and they remembered details with frightening accuracy. All it would take was hearing his name called out as they passed in the hallway, or mentioned in conversation, or glanced at on a document in the Senator’s office, and the information would have been passively filed away, to be drawn up and used at the appropriate moment.

It made spies nervous.

Not that he thought the Jedi held him any ill will, it was just…

Habit.

Spies hid themselves and hid themselves well for a reason. The mere thought of discovery was nerve-wracking and dangerous, no matter who the discovery was made by.

And a Shadow – former or otherwise - would _know_ that.

But, then again, Lachas didn’t _think_ this Jedi _knew_ he was anything more than a simpe Alderaani Adjunct.

“Don’t worry on my account, Master Jedi.” Lachas says politely. “The Senator will be quite pleased to see you.”

“Thank you.” The Jedi tips his head in grace, and when he meets Lachas’ eye, that blue-grey gaze is twinkling merrily.

_Kriffing Jedi_.

~*~

“Siri!”

Siri turns, her stomach growling, and spots Sian running up to her, toting a somewhat bulky case in her hands which shook with something heavy as she ran. Sian skids to a stop, grinning in delight to have caught her, and Siri thinks it’s remarkably unfair that the devaronian girl seems to have grown another inch. Excluding Tsui, and it wasn’t fair to include him, Siri is now the shortest of her friends. Even _Obi-Wan_ was beginning to stretch over her.

“Are you free?” Sian inquires, looking hopeful, iridescent blue eyes shining.

“I’m about to grab lunch.” Siri replies neutrally, wondering what her friend was up to now, and whether or not she wanted to be involved. Sian visibly pauses and looks her over.

“You haven’t had lunch yet?” She inquires. Siri shifts a little, because yes, she is aware it is hours after the lunch bell.

“I’ve been helping – _trying_ to help – Master Adi and Master Oppo – er, Master Rancisis – re-evaluate the system we have for senate requests, but… it’s an involved process.” Siri remarks, feeling glum. The truth was a little less vague – it _was_ an involved process – and Siri didn’t really know enough to be involved. Master Adi had been teaching her how to discern how such requests should be categorized and prioritized, but with the change in rosters, the limitations on resources, and the newly understood dubious validity of the reports, she was so very far out of her depth. Siri had come to acknowledge that she was making their crucial and tedious task even more tedious.

They had to build a new system, and Siri had barely scratched the surface of the old one.

_Accept what you can do_, Siri told herself. _And accept what you can’t do_.

Master Adi and Master Rancisis would develop a new system, and Siri _would_ learn it.

She kept telling herself that, but it didn’t quite balm the feeling of uselessness she had _now_.

“Would you join me?” Siri offers, feeling that Sian felt a little put out. “Have _you_ had lunch yet?” Siri returns, knowing that Master Jinn had a reputation for attempting to live on tea and meditation alone.

“I have,” Sian says, “but I’d love to join you. I’m always hungry.”

Siri leads the way into the commissary. “So, what is that?” She inquires, giving a pointed glance to the box in Sian’s hands.

“It’s a game.” Sian says cheerfully. “The youth Ambassadors I met on Moia had it sent to me. Their petition has finally been accepted by the Republic.”

“I thought that was settled months ago?” Siri inquires, taking a tray and scanning the service line. This far after lunch, most of it was curables and cold quick-serve stuff, of far less flavor and variety than what was served during actual meal times. Siri worries her lip a little, because one of the topics that kept coming up regarding their increased self-sustainability was the Temple’s consumables.

There was just…. it seemed such a silly thing, a little financial renegotiation, but it felt like there was so much that had to change because of it. It wasn’t just tax credits and stipends – _money_ wasn’t the Order’s problem – but there were trade benefits and traffic prioritization and fuel-

“Siri.” Sian bumps her, and Siri blinks, realizing she’d stopped and was just staring at a meilooran fruit. “I don’t know what you’re stressing out about, but I can tell you probably should stress about it less. We’re having lunch, you need to eat.” Sian maneuvers around her, nudging her along, and Siri huffs.

“Which means choosing what you want to eat.” Sian continues, tone teasing. “Be right _here_, right _now_. Don’t center of your anxieties. That’s what my master always says.”

“Well, if _your_ master says it.” Siri rolls her eyes, and Sian grins.

“C’mon, Siri.” Sian says, sauntering ahead of her, piling her plate with fruit and cold roasted meats, as suited her more carnivorous species. Siri herself picked her way through an assortment of rice rolls and pickled vegetables, and together they claimed one of many empty tables.

Siri digs in, offering her friend an apologetic look for not socializing, but she’s hungry. Sian just smirks back at her and pops a piece of fruit in her mouth, content.

“Sometimes I feel like the only padawan here who isn’t actually out _doing_ something. Something remarkable.” Sian remarks with a sigh, once Siri has nearly devoured her plate. Siri looks up, and Sian offers her a little shrug. “You’ve got all this… political maneuvering to settle, Tsui’s running around helping the Council prepare for our visitors, Bant is helping the archives piece together the archeological finds from Ossus when she isn’t buried in the labs, and Obi-Wan is off doing one of the two hundred and twelve things he’s got going on-“ Sian sputters tensely, and slops forward on the table, shoving her tray out of the way. “Even _Quinlan_ has some sort of new project going on with the creche, though I can’t imagine how that’s going.”

“You could.” Siri says blandly. “You’re the most imaginative person I’ve ever met.”

Siri quirks a half-hearted smile. “Thanks, Siri.” She says, and means it.

“What about Luminara?” Siri suggests, not having really interacted with the Mirialan padawan, but she seems to be friendly enough with Obi-Wan and Quinlan, and she was helping Sian in the salles.

“She’s preparing for her exams, and she and her master are already slated for their next mission. Everyone is just…. busy. And then there’s me.”

“Maybe you’ll get a mission soon.” Siri suggests hopefully. Sian gives her a look.

“Because Master Adi has found someone who is both willing _and_ able to partner with the illustrious Master Qui-Gon Jinn?” Sian drawls. “For more than a single day?”

Siri winces, feeling terrible that Sian’s first mission under the new regulations had pretty much fallen apart before it really began. _Irreconcilable differences_, that report had read.

“It’s not so terrible.” Sian mutters, brushing her fingers through her fringe and then tugging on the locks. “I just…compared to everyone else, I feel like I could be doing _more_, you know? I didn’t mean to just…dump that on you.”

Siri shrugs. “What are friends for?”

Sian brightens, spilling warmth into the Force, and Siri ducks her head a little.

“So…” Siri says, pushing her tray aside. “What about this game?”

“I thought you were helping your master…?”

“They don’t really need me right now.” Siri replies. _But you do_.

Sian’s smile returns with force, her orange-tan face aglow under her black freckles, and she grabs her meal tray. “Let’s put these away, and I’ll explain how it works.”

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author:  
I really hope you guys aren't traumatized by OC's, because I somehow failed to realize when i started spooling out this fic that having delegations come to the Temple means having a ton of new characters and EERRGh.  
I generally try and pull or reference characters that already exist somewhere in the Star Wars universe, but, you know, sometimes you just gotta do.  
So... prepare for some introductions, i'll try not to drop too many in at once.


	8. Chapter 8

“I don’t know what you’ve done, but you’re making my poor aide uneasy.” Bail calls, feeling a swoop of relief to be leaving the Senate Dome, and another to see the red gleam of Ben’s cinnoman hair awaiting him on the platform. The Jedi turns, expression warm as he regards Bail, and smiles innocently.

“I’m merely waiting for you.” Ben replies, stepping forward to greet him, palms opening, head dipping down. “He said it was fine.

Bail appreciates that the Jedi never fails to greet him in the traditional Alderaani manner, and this time, he feels he knows how to return the favor. He returns the gesture and then offers his arm, wrist tilted up, hand spread wide. Ben’s lips twitch, faux innocence turning into genuine pleasure, and he clasps forearms with Bail in the traditional Mandalorian manner, wrist to elbow.

Bail smiles, and glances at Adjunct Lachas Bey, who was one of his most reliable assistants - if not prone to a little anxiety. The young man – and Bail should perhaps stop referring to people his own age (and sometimes older) as such, but he has always felt like an old soul - dips his head in deeper respect, one palm held up and the other hand tucking the datapad against his sternum, which was generally how the gesture was handled when hands were occupied. The aide was loyal and polite, and Bail doesn’t doubt that he had shown the jedi every courtesy, but courtesy did not mean he felt comfortable, and he’d seemed a little on edge when Bail approached them.

Bail blames neither of them for this. Some things where what they were. His people would get used to the Jedi, he was sure. Alderaani were adaptable.

“I’m pleased you agreed to join me.” Bail remarks, moving towards the ship, and Ben falls in line with his stride.

“As am I, and Obi-Wan thanks you for the invitation, though he regrettably cannot attend. He made a prior commitment to the council.”

“Your padawan is quite ambitious. He does well for himself.” Bail says earnestly.

“He does well for himself.” Ben agrees lightly. “Though the ambition of his endeavors is perhaps entirely accidental.”

Bail laughs lightly at that, strolling up the docking ramp. He pauses at the airlock and turns to Bey, who was coming up behind. “Is everything in order? I realize my delay may have been inconvenient.”

“Not at all, Senator. I just need to check in with the pilot and we should be on our way. All the crew are accounted for, supplies onboarded – including the special order; Adjunct Espana _was_ able to expedite that– and I believe we have all our passengers?” His last turns into a question, glancing at the Jedi.

“We do.” Bail nods appreciatively, and the aide gives him a relieved smile. Bail gestures for Lachas to go ahead and precede them, to attend to his duties, and then turns to Ben. “Shall I give you a tour?” He offers. “Or are all Jedi quite well acquainted with diplomatic vessels?”

“Most are.” Ben replies. “Though I can safely say it’s been quite a few years since I’ve been in one of this class. I think a tour would be just the thing.” He muses, and sweeps inside next to Bail. “Alderaani design always did have a certain refinement to be appreciated.” Ben adds indulgently, and Bail tries to determine if he’s being polite or genuinely interested.

His tone was perfectly courteous and utterly unhelpful, but there was something fond and wistful about his eyes as he glanced around, and Bail nods.

If nothing else, Bail thinks, they’ll enjoy each other’s company.

~*~

Fay can feel a tension building in her neck and blooming into a headache as they approach – at long last – the Senate Dome, the mere idea of politics already tiring, though immersing herself in them was what she had come home to her people to do.

Knight Gallia, if she feels any such similar fatigue, masks it quite well, though Fay isn’t certain if it’s because she doesn’t feel it or her typical stern demeanor is because she feels it _constantly_.

She doesn’t quite realize something is _wrong_ about this feeling until they are walking into the Grand Atrium. They are perhaps half-way through the cavernous hall and Fay _must_ stop, feeling faint, her skin prickling and aching, the Force skittering around her grasp, staticky and discordant.

“Knight Gallia.” Fay calls out, sort of breath, one hand pressed to a chest that feels like she cannot breathe deep enough.

Fay reaches and reaches, trying to breathe calmly, trying to ground herself, but the dizziness only exacerbates, and her senses feel numbed.

It’s only when she can catch her breath, gripping tightly to a warm hand holding hers, that she realizes Knight Gallia had come to her aide and marched her back outside.

“When you said there was something ill in the Senate,” Fay mutters, leaning into the younger woman. “I did not imagine it was quite so…literal.” Fay breathes in deep, and looks over her shoulder at the shadow of the great dome.

“I apologize, Master Fay.” Knight Gallia says somberly.

Fay could groan at the address, but the young were so _stubborn_ with their manners.

“I… did not realize it would affect you so strongly.” Knight Adi confesses apologetically.

_Neither did I_, Fay thinks. She’s been in Sith Temples that hurt her less, but the Dome…whatever that is, it wasn’t anything she’s felt before. It wasn’t _Dark_…. It was….

Confusing. Frustrating. Debilitating.

But _what_ it was, Fay didn’t know, and that sent a chill of its own down her spine.

Fay’s connection to the Force was deep and intimate and intrinsic to her life force; she was _not_ immortal by birth, but through the power of that connection. Some days, when she cared to think on it, she thought she might live forever. Other days she dreaded that this would be true. She had trained four padawan before coming to understand she would outlive all of them, and swearing not to take another. The heart could only bear so much. So she had settled herself, for ultimately – it was the will of the Force, and it was as simple as that. Her life would be what it was.

So to have that connection so unexpectedly frayed and snarled like old twine – it had been disorienting and painful, but she doesn’t believe it could be fatal. She hopes.

What a dreadfully odd way to go that would be – literally death by politics.

Feeling much improved, Fay regards the young Jedi beside her, as stalwart as ever, with thoughtful consideration. The knight hadn’t expected Fay to be so affected – but Knight Adi hadn’t appeared affected _at all_.

“If we’re going to try this again, Knight Gallia, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to shield me.” Fay requests.

Knight Adi hesitates. “I can’t shield you in that manner.” The knight says quietly, a furrow in her brow. Fay looks at the young knight in surprise, and the tholotian’s hair pods tense and relax in waves of agitation. “Not… what guards my _self_.” The Knight gestures uncertainly over her center and up to her temple. Fay can all but taste her frustration, and a quivering tendril of guilt that it takes her a moment to parse-

The padawan, Fay realizes. The knight feels guilty that she cannot protect her padawan in the way Fay is asking that Adi protect _her_.

“Oh, girl,” Fay smiles wryly, letting grief pass for what she feels the Jedi have lost, if they do not know something once so commonplace as this. They have changed – it was will of the galaxy to change, but Fay has been apart and was not there to see it with her own eyes – and she mourns now that much of that change seems to have been in _loss_. “You are capable of far more than you know. And _that_, I can show you.”

~*~

~_That one?~_

“No.” Padawan Taria Damsin, of the Jedi Temple of Corellia, replies. _Again_. “That one isn’t even human, Rudaban, that’s an Evocii.” She informs her brother padawan, who is in fact a seven foot tall Kaleesh Shaman converted Jedi.

~ _That one?~_ He signs again, gesturing to _another_ red-haired figure as they explore the halls of the Coruscanti Temple, somewhat crowded at the moment as it was just past the dinner bell and many jedi were congregating for the meal. Taria looks.

“Probably not?” She says questionably. “He looks too old.”

Her brother padawan makes a gurgling sound of frustration, and Taria offers him a brush of solidarity through the Force. Rudaban Dai Soboc was a maroon skinned, full-grown kaleesh, his ceremonial mask a contrasting shade of muted green, the edges engraved with a triangle pattern, and his draping scarves the same muted yellow as his eyes. As a Force Sensitive, his people had raised him as a Shaman, and three years ago, he’d nearly died fighting against the Huk under the banner of the Great Khagan Lij Kumar. He had survived, though his voice had not, his throat still pale with vicious ropey scars that when uncovered trailed down his chest, and carved deeply into his side.

~ _That_\- ~

“That’s a woman, Rudaban.” Taria huffs fondly. “And her hair is pink, not red.”

Learning four-digit sign was still an ongoing process, but backed up by the Force, communication between the sibling padawans was all but a moot issue. Strictly speaking.

Cultural communication was still a hit and miss endeavor.

But this one was easy – Rudaban wanted to meet Dai Khagrah, the one who had brought hope to his people.

Also known as Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Taria understands that feeling completely, though she still thinks it’s a little crazy. Padawan Kenobi had been _thirteen_. By and large, she figured his great accomplishment had _probably_ been an accident. But that didn’t change the outcome, and if she thought it was weird that her adult pseudo-sibling hero-worshipped someone the same age as her, well, she could deal with it.

“Pardon, pardon, excuse me!” Taria taps a couple of older padawans, who shift uncomfortably away from her with brief expressions of disgruntlement, and sheesh, Master Unill had said the Coruscant Temple was very different from home, being so close to the Galactic Senate and under much more scrutiny, but she didn’t say they were all so stiff and _stuck up_. She’d been alaughin earlier and _sure_ it had bounced off the walls, but they’d looked at her like laughing in public was _wrong_. This whole Temple just felt…. It was bigger than the Corellian Temple, the halls taller and wider, a polished like a mausoleum to a clean shine, and it felt of _calm-peace-focus_, but to Taria, it also felt… _stifling_. As if for all the open air filled with light, there just wasn’t space here for her. “We’re looking for Padawan Kenobi?” She tries.

The padawans glance at each other, and Taria worries for a moment that they won’t even know who she’s talking about – well, they probably knew _who_, with the Kenobi Report having been forwarded to every serving Jedi - but knowing wasn’t the same as _knowing_.

“This time of day… the salles?” They suggest, one of them shrugging. Taria nods her thanks, ignoring the slightly wary look they cast her brother padawan.

“Where are the salles?” She inquires. Back home, the training salles were all rooftop balconies, but the Coruscant Temple looked more like a fortress from the outside. Lots of windows, but no open-air levels.

Taria listens intently to the directions and then takes off, having adopted a quick pace over her tenure as a padawan, trying to keep up with her tall Kalleran master and knowing that Rudaban, who had a tendency to follow right in her wake, could and would – not intentionally - run her over with his naturally long stride.

“Woah.” Taria remarks in awe, ducking into the cavernous hall of the salles she’d been directed to. They’d passed smaller ones, but they had been empty, but this one… the far wall fell away, and light spilled in from high windows, the space broken up by massive, solid pillars and far more delicate screen partitions, which looks as if they moved to suit the need.

“You could probably fit every person in our temple in here.” Taria remarks.

~ _Why_? ~ Rudaban signs, and Taria gives him a quizzical look.

“I don’t know, it’s just… an observation.” She says. He tilts his head, giving her that look like he finds her baffling and odd, but is fond of her nonetheless. It makes her feel like a youngling making up stories, and being patiently indulged.

She gets enough of that from their master, and offers him a short look that only seems to further amuse him before he turns and scans the wide area. Taria’s attention, however, is drawn the other way, towards a sort of shiver that skitters over her skin. She tugs on his belt and strides off, towards that feeling which is actually somewhat uneasy. Rudaban follows, the carved wooden talismans that hung from his belt clattering lightly, always telling her how any steps behind her he was. Taria winds around a few sparring knights, through a pair of columns, and around a partition.

“Found him.” Taria sucks in a breath, recognizing the black-and-white clothes he was reputed to wear, and the truly red color of his hair.

She and Rudaban weren’t the only spectators – there was a Master with silvering hair, a…padawan? In yellow and white tunics, and three younglings, of all things.

What Taria didn’t understand was why no one was _doing_ anything.

The combatants were _vicious_, and Taria could feel the crackle of power from the blades where she stood, rooted to the stone. One blade was a pale emerald, like most Jedi blades. The other was a deep jade color she’d never seen before, and they spun and snapped together and apart with a fury that didn’t belong in a spar, and Taria waited for someone to be a second too slow, for a block to falter, or a foot to slip, and then there would be-

~ _That is Dai Khagrah!_ ~ Rudaban signs excitedly, and moves to stride forward. Taria smacks an arm out to halt him, because someone is going to get hurt, and it is going to be bad, and why wasn’t anyone doing anything? It was so… she shivers.

It was _cold_.

That wasn’t the temperature of the salle, that wasn’t her own fear, that was something…

Taria looks between the two combatants, between Padawan Kenobi and the kiffar who _looked_ like a padawan, but…

The pale blade twists down and the kiffar turns in, slaming an elbow into Kenobi’s face. The younger padawan reels back, and the pale blade spins-

Taria leaps in, igniting her own blue saber with a snap and catching the blade, accidentally kicking Padawan Kenobi in the process, but hey, she was trying to save his life and he _was in the way_.

Brown eyes look at her in surprise, and Taria feels her stomach drop out at the sickly ring of yellow eating at the insides of them. She grinds her teeth, pressing back against her opponent, and stumbles when he disengages completely – not, she realizes a second later, entirely of his own will. Padawan Kenobi had shoved him with the Force.

“Quinlan!” Kenobi says sharply, as the kiffar’s lip curls angrily, his entire body brimming with violence as he lashes back at that push in the Force with an icy flood of dark power that Taria flinches from – but it never touches her. Kenobi washes that away too. “Quinlan.” He repeats more calmly, stepping up beside Taria, and disengaging his lightsaber, and was he _crazy_-

The master is standing now, as is the padawan, and she’s holding the little twi’lek back as the girl looks ready to run into the fray.

“What are _you_ doing?” Kenobi demands under his breath, and Taria blinks, because he’s taking that tone with _her_.

“Excuse me?” She snaps. “He’s-“ She gestures, and falters, because the kiffar, in her split second of distraction, had dropped his lightsaber, which snaps out with a hiss, rolling away from him, and dropped to his knees to meditate.

Kenobi gives her an impatient look, clips his lightsaber to his belt, and moves forward to kneel in front of the kiffar. They breathe in together, and breathe out. Steadily, repetitively. The darkness fades away like an early frost, and while there is still a tang of chill she can feel, there isn’t _malice_.

When the kiffar opens his eyes again, they’re brown. _Just_ brown. Taria walks forward with insatiable curiosity and leans in a little, looking into those eyes. The kiffar blinks back at her, at first seeming taken aback at her leaning into his space, and then he smirks flirtatiously, batting his eyes at her. Taria, for all her previous disquiet, can’t help but snort and roll her eyes out of instinctual habit because _not a chance, buddy boy_, and glances at Kenobi, her voice chalked with disbelief.

“You are absolutely insane, and I’m not entirely sure _what_ you just did, but color me _impressed_.” She remarks, full of feeling.

“Uh…” Padawan Kenobi’s blue-green eyes are a little wide, and he _blushes_.

_Oh_, Taria thinks, getting a good look at his face for the first time. _He’s cute_.

Then, of course, Rudaban loses patience, and shoves her out of his way.

“Could you _not_!” She screeches.


	9. Chapter 9

_He can’t know_, Third Brother tells himself, smiling blandly at Master Naasade as he sets tea for the Senator, his skin crawling nonetheless.

Naasade rakes him up and down with an eye, twitches a brow and smirks flirtatiously, then returns to conversation with Senator Organa as if nothing had happened at all. Senator Organa’s gaze flickers between then speculatively, but he too ignores the interaction.

_There’s no way he knows_.

Trip did not get to being Third of Shadows by being sloppy and getting caught out. He was Third, because there were only two in the service _better_ at this than he was.

For all intents and purposes, Trip was nothing more than he appeared; A self-indulgent chef with a fussy attitude, with a perfect touch for the royal couples favorite deserts and little to no Force ability that could be sensed.

So _Naasade_ can’t know.

Except that Trip is fairly sure he does.

Naasade has passed him by a few times already, but the first time he’d gotten a good look – and by a good look, Trip means a hard, piercing look of consternation that all but turned his stomach to ice – he’d huffed, and then offered the Shadow, currently pretending to be a pastry chef, a slow, indulgent grin, and gone on his merry way.

_Maybe he’s just flirting_, Trip dismissed it the first time. _Paranoid_ – any former Shadow would be – _but flirting_.

Maybe he’s _not_.

Trip wants to ask, but that just…wasn’t done, Naasade being a former Shadow or not.

_Trust, but don’t tell, Third Brother_. He tells himself. _Not even your own_.

So Trip doesn’t _know_, and it’s putting him on edge.

He may or may not alleviate some of that tense anxiety by having a little fun with the Alderaani Agent, but it was all harmless. Trip was here on Naasade’s account, rather than on account of the collaborating in their investigations. Alderaan wanted to remain separate – that was fine – but the Order wanted to know more about how and why the Alderaani investigation came to be, and Naasade’s direct connection to Senator Organa therefor bore looking into.

Also, they weren’t keen on letting Naasade off completely on his own. The man drew trouble like meat drew flies.

And he was perfectly well aware of it.

Shadows didn’t keep records that could be tracked, and once you were done – you were _done_. So he can’t look up the mans file, but Trip can’t help but wonder, as those blue-grey eyes casually tracked him down the corridor or across a room:

Who the kriff _was_ this guy?

~*~

“Quit-“ _thwack_! “ – mooning –“ _thwack_! “ – over –“ _thwack_! “Padawan Damsin.” Tsui complains, hitting Obi-Wan in the leg with his datapad.

“Tsui!” Obi-Wan protests retreating and being followed so that the small Aleen padawan could take out his complaint. “Your master is a bad influence.” He mutters.

Tsui grins widely at him, tucking his datapad under his arm. “I disagree.” He says. “Can I have your attention now?”

Obi-Wan sulks a little. “I wasn’t _mooning_.” He grumbles.

Tsui offers him a dryly impatient look that channels Master Yaddle with uncomfortable precision.

Obi-Wan sighs through his nose. “You have my attention.” He says, resisting the urge to glance around for Taria’s distinctive blue-green hair again. He _wasn’t_ mooning. He just thought she was…

_Interesting_.

He winces to himself and nervously rubs at the back of his neck. Tsui gulps in a deep breath and burbles low in his throat, and Obi-Wan focuses, because Tsui does deserve his attention, and Tsui is under just as much pressure here as Obi-Wan was. As a Council Padawan, he’d been well put to work in the arrangements for their guests, which had a big influence on how their guests would view and remember the Couruscant Temple, which was _important_.

And stressful.

“Have you seen Padawan Skywalker?” Tsui asks, lookin around himself. “You two should stick together. You’ll both be in attendance to answer questions, and your two subjects are closely intertwined. You’ll be easier to manage together.” Tsui says quickly, voice a little high and thin.

“Tsui, breathe.” Obi-Wan says calmly. “and define _seen_.” He adds, quirking a smirk.

Tsui is utterly unimpressed with his attempt at humor, and Obi-Wan deflates a little. “Breathe.” Obi-Wan says again.

“I _am_ breathing.” The Aleen padawan mutters, the effort of doing so seeming to take up his whole body. A stressed Aleen was stressful just to _look_ at.

“I saw Shmi this morning for breakfast.” Obi-Wan reports, which had been two hours ago. Shmi had barely spoken a word, and she’d had streaks of grease in her hair, scratches all over her hands, and a funny little indent on her cheek that suggested she’d had trouble sleeping, gone to tinker with her ship, and fallen asleep on her hydrospanner somewhere in the engine. Shmi was good with people, really good, but public speaking… not so much.

Likely, he imagines she had gone to clean up, and probably spend some time trying to distract herself from her nerves.

“She’ll be here.” Obi-Wan assures the younger boy.

“I’d rather she was here _now_.” Tsui frets.

“She’ll be here, Tsui.” Obi-Wan repeats, reaching down to touch the boys shoulder briefly, passing to him a sense of calm and reassurance. Tsui’s eyes go half-lidded for a moment, and then he perks back up with the same frantic energy.

The Council Chamber was too small for the gathering that was to attend, and so an alternative meeting place had to be found. They’d wanted somewhere in the main body of the temple, so that their guests didn’t have to go winding through classrooms, but not so disruptive as the Room of a Thousand Fountains, or the salles, where groups of initiates or padawans in training would still be frequent, going about their normal schedules.

They had debated on closing a Dining Hall for their purposes, or opening a ballroom that most forgot existed, and Padawan Tachi, inspired perhaps by her master, had raised an important point;

This was not a debate for closed doors. These decisions should not be made in seclusion. The future of the Order was being shaped, and anyone who should want to attend should be allowed to attend, not only to bear witness, but to offer their perspective.

The Jedi, she’d pointed out, were a diverse many, and could not therefor be wholly represented by such a limited congregation. It was one thing for the High Council and their various counterparts to maintain the operation and upkeep of the Jedi Order, and another to completely redefine their way of life.

Apparently, she’d been sickly pale by the end of the impassioned address, but her master had been beyond proud.

And fiercely supportive.

Siri had gone directly from that meeting – of which she had attended only as a bystander to her master – to the nearest bench, laid down flat on her face, head buried in her arms, and tried to forget that she existed. Knight Gallia had actually laughed in public, scooped her padawan up – earning a shriek – and taken her out of the temple for ice cream.

So, very early this morning, an immense effort had been undertaken to transform the Dawn Atrium into a public meeting place, with an open circle of benches and chairs – to accommodate various species – for the Congregation, and neatly laid out cushions and meditation mats for anyone else who wished to attend. Not far from the temple entrance, it was open, full of stained-glass windows that faced sunrise, and out of the way of main traffic without being too far out of the way.

Notice had been posted to the TempleNet, and now…

Obi-Wan looks around at the milling guests – some of whom were just curious padawans who wanted a look before heading off to class – and takes a breath of his own.

Now it was actually happening.

~*~

Lachas had just bitten into a tart, and to his dismay found it far more _sweet_ than _tart_, and he has half a mind to have words with the replacement chef, because surely Senator Organa doesn’t have this kind of sweet tooth, when he hears a soft, hair-raising “_Oh dear_.”

He turns to look at the Jedi, and that’s when the concussion hits the ship like the hammer of some vengeful titan.

“Sena-“ Lachas hits the wall before he can even finish calling out, and _what happened to the grav_-

Pain hits as power surges through the walls, overloading circuits and arcing electricity, half the panels blowing out with the lights-

_We’re falling out of hyperspace_, Lachas realizes with terror, feeling the ship rend and shudder, the hull screaming as it twisted and sheared, and he begins to slide along the wall.

_We’re falling out of hyperspace without our shields_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: It just felt like one of those days, you know?


	10. Chapter 10

Mace Windu leans forward in his chair, hands steepled together and just barely touching his lip. It’s a look of contemplative focus, but the truth is, is that what he’s feeling is _dread_.

Today had not gone well, and he hoped they could wrap up soon. The congregation had gone around in chaotic disorder, trying to propose what needed to be addressed, arguing over what should be addressed first, bemoaning what data records they did have versus what they didn’t, postponing certain topics altogether until further financial reports could be drawn up, or resource production versus resource output logs could be assembled.

It wasn’t, he regrets, that they weren’t prepared, but that they weren’t certain what to prepare _for_, not until they were all together, attempting to hash it all out. He knew this would likely be a long and involved process, but from where he was sitting, it was just… messy.

And what made it worse was that a particular group of padawans were sitting on the other side of the gathering, in his line of sight, and he could see them collaborating, Padawan Skywalker debating quietly with Padawan Kenobi, Padawan Kenobi taking notes, Padawan Tachi occasionally hissing in his ear, and Padawan Choi taking the datapad from Padawan Kenobi on occasion and seeming to proof read those notes.

It was good that the padawans were involved. He had to convince himself of that. Their clear dedication and intent to contribute was beneficial to the Order.

Yet it made Mace long wistfully for his own padawan, who had always been ready to offer her opinion in his ear, and it made him feel… inadequate, in a way. Looking around at this Congregation, squabbling and uncertain and confused, he feared that they were all, perhaps, inadequate to the task that had been set before them.

Mace had long been content with his place in the Order. He looks to Master Yoda, whose eyes are wide open and whose ears are drooping tiredly, and wonders if he doesn’t feel the same – that their content had turned into complacency, and that somehwere along the way, complacency had become failure.

He closes his eyes. Shatterpoints twist and scatter all around him, and he can’t see any path clearly.

Next to him, Master Sifo-Dyas sighs, rubbing at his brow, and the Seer appears to suffer the same jarring inconclusivity.

Mace opens his eyes again, and all four Padawans are watching him. He tenses, and they glance at each other, a silent debate taking place. Three sets of eyes turn on Padawan Choi who nods, gets up, and pads discreetly up behind Master Yaddle, murmuring in her ear.

Master Yaddle taps her stick on the ground, and drawing on the Force to earn the disparate collectives attention, as several smaller debates had broken out among them. She proposes that they each compile a list of what records and reports they personally require, and reach back to their respective Temples to have them sent forward. At which point, she suggests they close this meeting for the day.

Mace opens his hands and covers his face with his palms.

_I’m being rescued by children_, he thinks aggrievedly.

Then he sighs.

Depa would find it hilarious, his padawan always ready to laugh at his expense.

He is, he’ll admit grudgingly, grateful.

~*~

A SoroSuub PLY 3000 Luxury cruiser was fifty-two meters long, equipped with two externally housed ion-propulsion engines, coupled with two separate hyperdrive engines, also housed in the external nacells, two chempat-6 deflector shield generators, and one recessed emergency laser canon. It housed a diplomatic suite, five luxury cabins, ten additional passenger berths, and was capable of carrying one-hundred metric tons of cargo.

Designed solely as a personal luxury transport, the vessel was rated for maneuverability, reliability, and speed.

As it tears out of hyperspace at speeds just shy of light, the unshielded hull begins to buckle under stress, one nacelle snapping off as a power surge triggers the safety release. The hyperdrive explodes under the keel as the ship rolls, adding force to a vessel already careening uncontrolled at high acceleration, the deceleration thrusters having failed to engage.

Mechanically speaking, this was what they called cascade failure.

In empty space, the ship would eventually lose acceleration through attrition.

The Alderaani diplomatic transport did not crash so conveniently into empty space.

Asteroids gleaming with dark ice stretched for hundreds of parsecs in every direction, some as small as a grain of sand, and others, had they orbited a star, easily qualifying as their own planet.

Which, unfortunately, meant they possessed their own gravity. The Alderaani vessel will not have the opportunity to decelerate.

Sliding out of hyperspace into the rapidly decaying orbit of a massive, oblong object, the ship can only fall.

~*~

“Stand _still_, Siri.” Master Adi instructs, hands on her padawan’s shoulders.

“It _tickles_.” Siri replies, frowning and still twitching.

Truth be told, the padawan thought, it did more than tickle. It raised all the little hairs on her body and felt like a mental embrace, warm and comforting, but also somewhat _smothering_. She couldn’t help but squirm.

Still, it was better than her master’s first few attempts, which had nearly knocked her over and gave her such a headache that Siri flatly called it quits for the day.

“You aren’t wrapping her up, girl.” Far chides lightly, seated cross-legged on the window seat in their quarters. “You’re drawing her in.”

“I’m trying.” Master Adi grits her teeth.

“Should _I_ do something to help?” Siri asks again, each time more insistently.

“_No_.” They both reply, more insistent as well.

Master Fay – _Please_ call me Fay – sighs through her nose, pouting at the young Knight. Siri still finds it strange, sometimes, that Fay looks a little younger than her Master, but is so, so much older, in a way the young padawan can’t even quite grasp.

“You are too rigid.” Fay says, frustrated, dropping one foot down so that her toe graces the floor and leaning forward, propping her chin on the knuckles of one hand. “You must let go of yourself – be less physical in the way you shape your thoughts. Siri is not standing in front of you, beside you, near you, far from you. She is a part of you, as all things are a part of the Force. Mass, shape, color, these things are not _real_, not as _you_ are real. They are the trappings of a limited perception. _Ignore_ them.”

Siri can see a muscle ticking in her master’s jaw as she tries to comprehend the master’s lesson, and Siri slumps a little glumly.

This entire endeavor was feeling a _lot_ like Obi-Wan’s ridiculous sand exercise.

_There’s a trick to this that cannot be taught_. Obi-Wan had told her wisely once, when she complained that his master never gave him a reasonable explanation for the task he had been set. _Only learned_.

_All my master can do is set up the lesson_.

To be fair, Obi-Wan was the Learner in that lesson.

In _this_ lesson, Siri was basically the sand.

~*~

“Pink is just… inelegant.” Lady Alejana Antilles sniffs, frowning at the silver-branched berries that laced the edge of some of the ribbons laid out in Breha’s dressing room. “It’s really not your color, darling.”

Pink berries being, of course, the marriage totem for House Organa, as the bronze vine was the marriage totem of House Antilles. For the engagement, Breha would wear Bail’s, and Bail her’s, and on their wedding they would be entwined.

Breha turns towards her aunt, one of many, her expression clear, and glances at the ribbon in question. In her minds eye, Breha has already been tracing those two wines entwined on a silver shroud, over her red wedding dress, which changes in fashion and style every time she considers it.

She thought they looked lovely together, and, glancing at the mirror, Breha quirks a brow – that soft pink _was_ most certainly her color, though not particularly popular in Alderaani fashion these days. Too reminiscent of red, and red was special. Red was for births, and weddings, and funerals.

Traditionally, pink was for healing, and remained entwined with Alderaan’s medical culture, but for the greater public, it also reminded them of sickness, and suffering, and disquiet.

But Breha’s preferences where never without an edge to them, and this was no different – the duality of its meaning made her thoughtful, and that was as she liked it.

“And what would it say of my future husband and I, if I eschewed tradition because you thought the color did not suit me?” Breha inquires, lightly touching Nayata’s hand as the old woman carefully braided partitions of her hair. Her attendant smiles privately, with a supportive twinkle in her eye, and Breha looks to her aunt.

“Bre, you know she did not mean it like that.” A cousin placates.

Breha is too settled in herself for the childish nickname to irritate her, but she _longs_ for Bail, and the way he whispers out the two syllables of her name against her neck, the sound a worship in his mouth. She had stopped going by Bre long before she became _Queen_ _Breha_.

Bre was a child; small and brash and naïve. Breha loved the memories in nostalgia, and did not regret her childhood, but Bre had not been a Queen, and had not had yet the qualities her people _needed_.

Breha could not be small and brash and naïve. She had to be larger than herself, and cautious, and wise.

“Perhaps.” Breha says neutrally. She is well aware that several sides of her family, in all its many branches, did not approve of Bail, and some of it was his name, and some of it was his position, and some of it because they had in mind others they’d prefer her to marry.

One of the perks of being Queen, however, was that she officially outranked everyone else in her House, and her husband was hers to choose without a trice damned thing they could do about it.

Besides annoy her.

A knock on the door puts a stall in further conversation, and the ladies all glance at each other, some of the younger ones gigglings, as Breha was still seated at her dressing table in naught but a shift and a robe, waiting for the seamstresses to arrive for yet another alteration.

Her engagement was in six days, and her aunts kept fussing over the details. Breha let them, because it was simpler to do so than arguing or offending them by flatly denying them their involvement.

Sojia, Nataya’s assistant in training, quickly draws a screen between Breha and the door, and slips around to answer it. The safety protocol ensures it will only open two inches on first response for anyone who is not Breha or her vetted attendants. Two inches is enough for a blaster bolt, however, she and her staff know better than to stand right in front of the gap.

The ladies lean and look curiously, trying to determine who it is. The door swicks back shut, and Sojia slips around the screen again, the girl blank-faced in a way that says she is hiding _too_ much, and she really must be trained out of that, Breha thinks.

Sojia steps over to her and leans down to whisper in her ear.

“Seeds on a light wind,

do not always sow where they,

Are meant to take root.” She recites the message.

“Thank you.” Breha smiles kindly at the girl, and gathers the fold of her shift and robe in hand and standing. She nods to her company. “Excuse me a moment, ladies.”

“Breha!” A different aunt scolds. “You’re about to be fitted. It’s indecorous to step out on your company, let alone your appointments.”

Breha wonders on occasion if they understand, _really_, that she _is_ the Queen, and not simply another wayward daughter of House Antilles, whose manners still needed to be honed in.

“I _have_ been fitted.” Breha replies. “Several times.” She says wryly. “I will only be a few moments to make a call.”

“In your nightgown? Really, Bre?” An older cousin smirks a little. “It wouldn’t be your soon-to-be-betrothed, would it?”

“Certainly not.” Lady Alejana sniffs, frowning sharply at the younger woman. Breha in turn frowns at her, and Alejana shifts fussily, looking up proudly and flicking aside the ribbons she’d been busying her hands with. “It would be utterly improper. You are Queen Breha Antilles, not some over-amorous bait-bride.”

“Allie!” a different aunt gasps.

“She may speak her mind, and I will set it at ease.” Breha says sharply. “I will not be speaking with Bail.” And she leaves the dressing room, strides through her chambers to her night study, and engages the security protocols, sealing the door behind her. She steps up to the desk and hits the comm.

It’s answered immediately, obviously having been awaiting her call.

“What do you mean, you _lost_ him?” Breha demands, voice as cold as the glacial peaks above her home.


	11. Chapter 11

All ‘_is that your lightsaber’_ jokes aside, being tackled to the floor by a man wearing what is essentially a durasteel pipe on his hip is actually quite _painful_.

Bail grunts, and Ben actually mutters an apology in his ear with a tickle of whiskers, which is ridiculous, because Bail is fairly certain the ship is about to be torn apart. A wind has whipped up, the atmosphere fleeing through breach in the hull, and the vessel itself seems to be screaming.

A hand finds the back of his neck and Ben tucks Bails head into the protective crook of his shoulder. Bail’s stomach lurches, blood whooshing in his ears, and miraculously, they don’t move, though everything else seems to, as the ship spins wildly, and inertial force challenges gravity in a lurching, vicious tug of war.

Or perhaps not so miraculously, considering the Jedi Master lying atop him.

“We’re going to hit-“ Another brush of scruff against his ear, and then-

Well, then, Bail supposes, they _hit_.

~*~

A ship’s kitchen, Trip thinks, is a terrible place to be in a crash. The magnetic latches all fail with the power, drawers and cupboards lying open, flinging their contents into the air, and he slams first into the ovens and then into the baking rack, which knock the air out of his lungs and pops at least one rib out of place. The kitchen is chaos, and Trip throws caution to the wind and creates a barrier around himself in the force, deflecting hazards such as the knives that have been scattered free. There are two other staff in the kitchen, and he can see Bola, and she’s bleeding, having hit the counter at east once, sliding down the aisle as the ship tilts and the gravity with it.

Something is pulling them down, he realizes, the ships stabilizers having failed – likely blown in the power surge.

But the other is missing. They had been in the cold storage. Trip tries to feel for them, pushing down nausea and pain, and gets ahold of Bola, stopping her slide. She curls up tightly; oblivious to the unusual and incongruous stop.

The whole ship just feels like fear and panic, save one strong presence of patience and grim determination that must be Naasade, and Trip can’t imagine how the man holds his nerve. Trip knew he could die in the line of duty, he’d consigned himself to that. He had a dangerous service.

But not like this.

He is just stabilizing his bearings himself when they hit – and _bounce_. The ships skips and skids roughly, tumbling like an unbalanced clothes ‘fresher, and Trip can feel bile climb up the back of his throat, his vision greying out – not only from the force on his body, he realizes, but from a lack of oxygen, the breeze having been the least of his concern.

_Pleas stop please stop_. He prays, and feels the ship come apart.

No _no no no_-

The wall tears open violently, and the outside comes rushing in.

~*~

Lacahs gathers enough of his wits to slide himself into a turn, jarring painfully over the door hatch but hitting the corner by landing on his feet than getting slammed into the side again. He twists and reaches, getting the barest grip with his fingertips on the frame of the door, and pulls, stretching, to reach the key-panel.

_Damn it damn a little – more_ –

Something tugs at him, giving him the reach, and he slams his hand down on the panel, praying the safety circuits didn’t blow with everything else.

The independent power survived, and the magnetic seals activate, closing down the room and cutting it off from the rest of the ship, so that if the ship comes apart – this chamber will, at least, survive.

He grits his teeth and closes his eyes. There are nine other staff on board, and if it is necessary to save the Senator, he has to consign them to their fate.

That doesn’t make it any easier.

He feels when they hit. He feels, through every bone in his body, when the ship starts breaking up.

The lounge segment they are in detaches cleanly under stress.

And then it starts a brutal, tumbling spin.

~*~

Ben clings to the decking, and even after what remains of the vessel shudders into stillness, he can still feel his body shaking.

“Have we survived?” Bail asks dryly, putting on a remarkably calm countenance for a man whose heart Ben can feel thundering.

Ben huffs. “It appears so.” He says, and peels himself off the junior Senator, helping Bail to his feet. Bail winces lightly, bruised and stiff from a having been so tightly tensed. “Is everyone alright? Lachas!” Bail asks Ben first, and then spies his adjunct slumped in the corner. Ben had tried to protect him as best he could, but there had been a _lot_ to focus on, and trying to change the vector of a ship falling rapidly into an asteroid was _difficult_. He’s amazed he didn’t screw up and that they all didn’t disintegrate on impact.

“I’m alright, sir.” The adjunct insists, wobbling as he stood up. Ben isn’t sure that’s exactly true – the mans olive skin is red across the one side with electrical burns, and there’s something more seriously wrong with that arm than just bruises, by the way he’s holding it. “A moment.” He doesn’t let his injuries phase him, and Ben wonders if the spy doesn’t realize that his reaction is not the reaction of a mere aide prone to anxiety.

Oh, he _knows_ Lachas Bey. The man had served Bail faithfully for many years, as an aide, as a spy, as a bodyguard during the Clone Wars, as an agent of the rebellion Bail had been building after. They hadn’t been friends – the man kept himself professionally distant with dedication – but they had had an understanding, of sorts. A camaraderie that developed somewhere between Christophsis and Bataan and… Ben doesn’t even remember all those battlefields, all those missions. Some of them he remembers with excruciating detail – Geonosis, Zygerria, Umbara, to name a few – but others were just… moments, here and there, between the fighting and the planning and the dread.

He remembers pulling Bail out of more than one foxhole, and Bail pulling him out of a few, and Bey’s well hidden exasperation with them both. He’d never been shy to remind the Senator that he served the Queen first, and _the Queen would not like this_.

_But she would understand that it needed to be done_. Had often been Bail’s frustratingly accurate reply.

“Sir, the communications aren’t functioning.” Lachas reports, having been attempting his comm.

“The electrical surge.” Ben reminds him absently. “Your communicator was likely damaged.”

Lachas stares at him for a fatigued moment, and then nods, looking rather disappointed with himself.

“Ben, can you…” Bail trails off, not sure how to ask what he was asking.

Ben nods, letting his senses expand.

As asteroid field was not like a planet. Planets had a sort of…. yield, in the Force. Something not quite life, not the way that beings lived, but… a heart. Even an intent.

Asteroids, however, they were different. Some fields held that same planetary feel, yet it was scattered, disjointed if it did exist. Some had a rhythm, if they followed an orbit, but this field… There was no star here to dance around, not for a thousand lightyears in any direction, if Ben assumed they were in the Celedean Ice Belt. And he did make that assumption, and he brooded over it, because they should have passed the ice belt by – if they been in the hyperlane they were supposed to have been in.

He pushes that thought aside for now – there is nothing he can do with it here and now – and focuses. Lives dot the expanse like scattered candles, some flickering weakly.

But not as many as there should have been.

“We’ve lost two. I’m sorry.” Ben murmurs. “And several are injured.”

“Can we reach them?” Bail asks quietly, his sorrow cutting sharply into the air, followed by a hard resolve.

Ben hesitates. “I’m not sure. Do we have any sensors? Anything to tell us what it’s like outside?”

_Other than cold_, he thinks in dismay. He can feel it even now, creeping through the hull, sapping at the residual heat left in the room.

“In the emergency supplies.” Lachas nods. “If the scanners aren’t fried as well.”

The three of them look at each for an adrenaline shaken moment, reconciling the fact that they are still alive and breathing and that they have a chance to survive, and then they get to work on actually surviving.


	12. Chapter 12

“Obi-Wan.”

“_What_?” The boy snaps, turning and paling the moment he realizes he just took that tone with a _Councilor_. His eyes drop to the floor and he takes a deep breath, bowing. “I’m sorry, Master Windu, that was out of line.”

Mace eyes the boy, a little disgruntled that his first attempt to be… more friendly with Naasade’s padawan was not off to a great start. Dropping his title had clearly caught him off guard.

Still, he had called out to the boy because he could feel the _tension-stress-upset_ coming off of him, _and_ because he knew why. The Council, aware that Kenobi was taking on a large responsibility for them, was monitoring his academic progress, and closely so, given that his own master out of temple.

And he had failed a fairly important test this morning. As an initiate, his grades had always trailed below the average set by his peers, and had not improved much as a padawan – though the quality of his work _had_ risen greatly - his new average balancing some areas in which he soared with other areas in which he muddled through, and largely affected by a lack of time in the boys schedule dedicated to schoolwork.

“Apology accepted.” Mace says simply. “You may not yet have seen the notice, but Master Unsaan will allow you to retake your examination in a week, provided you remain on track within his class.”

Obi-Wan finally meets his eye, looking surprised. “But that’s-“ He bit his lip, looking caught out. _Not allowed_, Mace had no doubt he’d meant to say. And typically, it wouldn’t be. A progression test was meant to evaluate a students understanding of the previous unit of instruction. Failure meant they ought to retake that unit to better their own understanding. Which meant delaying progress onto the next unit. First, so that the students truly grasped the material, second, because they must also learn patience and comprehension. They were not learning to pass a test, they were learning to develop a skill or study. Not everyone learned at the same rate, and some things would simply require time, which many younglings felt they never had enough of.

Unfortunately, in Padawan Kenobi’s case, that was largely true. Naasade’s disputable training regimen aside, his Padawan had developed both self-discipline and time-management skills that would be noteworthy for any _senior_ padawan. But all the dedication and focus in the world didn’t make up for the time he did not have to dedicate to _everything_ currently on his plate.

“Were it a matter of your comprehension, Padawan Kenobi, you _would_ be retaking the unit for your own benefit. However, given your circumstances, we saw fit to allow you this small concession, if only to alleviate some of the stress you put yourself under.”

The padawan mouths half that last sentence back to himself, eyes slightly narrowing on the councilor, but ultimately, he doesn’t protest the assumption.

“Thank you, Master Windu. I will be more mindful.” He finally says, with gratitude, though Mace notes his voice seems a little scratchy, and hopes the boy isn’t coming down sick as well.

“If I might ask – where are you off to now?” Mace inquires.

“Meditation with Qui- with Padawan Vos.” He replies.

Mace pauses. “Is that really a priority?” He inquires, considering he just made an academic exception on the boys behalf – he would assume that studying might be the first thing he would head off to do.

The boys expression turns flat, and then placid – and Mace cringes a little, because it’s bad on younglings and _terrible_ on teenagers, and Kenobi tilts his head a little quizzically. Kenobi sighs little, a small, decompressive puff of air.

“You can’t expect to save the world, Master Windu, if you can’t even save one person.” He says with a calm wisdom that should b reproachful and yet isn’t. Mace can see the Master he’ll be one day, in moments like these. Not the echo of Naasade’s brittle fate, but his own future.

“Haven’t you ever heard the phrase ‘don’t make promises you can’t keep’?” Mace warns sincerely. He has hope for Padawan Vos, and he wants to have hope, but every dread warning still settles low in his belly when the cold aura of the young kiffar passes him by.

“You don’t make promises because you’re asked to do something that’s _easy_.” Kenobi replies. “A promise never means you won’t fail. It means you’ll fail, and keep failing, until you don’t, or until you _can’t_. We’re not there yet.”

“No.” Mace replies thoughtfully, eyeing the junior padawan again. “I suppose you aren’t.”

The padawan catches his look and shifts a little warily, turning one heel to make to leave before Mace can ensnare him some way.

“Give my regards to Padawan Vos.” Mace says, “And Obi-Wan – I rather miss the evening routine with my student. If you ever need assistance.”

Kenobi brightens, smiling a little shyly. “Thank you, Master Windu. I ay take you up on that.”

Mace bows lightly and watches him go.

He really does have a lot of work and responsibility for a _junior_ padawan, even with the congregation momentarily stalled.

Mace considers the shape of the problem, and think there is something might be able to do about that.

~*~

It is perhaps a boon, Breha thinks, that she was not a Jedi. Had she the ability, she is quite certain she would be setting things on fire just by touching them.

Not having that ability, she instead smiles, and bows, and glides with poise through the winding markets and the hundreds of stalls of flowers. The Flowe Festival was a Royal Engagement tradition, and typically Bail would be with her, so they could choose arrangements and bouquets and vendors for the ceremony itself.

Children running around with blossoms in their hair, young lovers with them tucked into their lapels, elders with wreaths and wreaths of them, they brought a balm to her spirit, to see her people well and happy and celebrating, but still…

She’d been notified immediately when Bail’s vessel failed to make it’s safety stop and meet up with it’s security escort before skirting the edges of the deep core, where the hyperlanes could be…tricky, and the astronomical anomalies violent.

That had been five hours ago, and the Royal Service was still attempting to retrace his _exact_ trajectory as he left Coruscant.

So Breha had stood still and let the seamstresses and her ladies all fret and fuss over ribbons and hemlines, and then she had made herself ready for the festival, and smiled, and gave a promising speech for the year to come, and walked the markets and spoke with her people and watched children throw petals on the lake, and inside, she _burned_.

Her people would do their job, she reminded herself sternly. And Bail wasn’t alone. Whatever had happened- and they _would_ find out what happened – Bail had Ben with him, and Ben was a Jedi Master.

“My Lady?” An old man bows to her, offering up a small bracelet of pink bell-flowers. “For worry and ease, my lady.” He says, hands heavy from a like of working with them, face lined and careworn.

“Do I seem worried?” Breha inquires lightly, brushing the flowers with her fingertips.

“The Queen is never worried, My Lady.” He assures her with a wide boyish smile. “But the young man should be here, and is not.” He adds kindly. Breha swallows tightly, having known that her people would notice. Bail _should_ be here, tucking flowers in her hair, smiling, learning peoples stories, letting himself be seen and recognized as the future Consort.

They had cut his trip home very close even in the planning, but a Queen marrying a Senator had to be carefully handled. Neither potion must suffer, or Alderaan would suffer. They had resolved to make it work.

And other forces had resolved against them.

“Not yet.” Breha nods gracefully, and accepts the bracelet.

~*~

“Siri!” “_Siri_!”

Adi can hear the yelp from inside the office, and a moment later the door swicks open.

“Master!” Siri exclaims forcefully, and darts into the room, utterly dragging her devaronian friend by the wrist. “I figured it out!” Siri says sharply, and throws something down at the table.

Adi blinks for a second, because her padawan is bristling with an energy that might well stand her hair on end, and then looks down to where Siri has knocked over a ream of flimsy, Master Rancisis and Master Fay both glancing at each other with aplomb at the young girls entrance.

Sitting in amongst the disturbed sheafs is a small block of what looks like grey stone.

“You can unhand your friend.” Adi chides lightly, frowning at the incongruous object.

“Thank you.” Padawan Jeisel mutters, Siri finally releasing her.

“I’m not sure I get it?” Master Fay says politely, peering down at the block.

“It’s a game piece-“ Padawan Jeisel starts to explain, stepping forward and leaning on Siri’s shoulder.

“That’s not important-“ Siri shushes her, pushing her back out of her personal space.

“It’s important to _me_.” Master Jinn’s padawan mutters.

“ – what’s important is what it’s _made_ of, Master.” Siri says, talking over the other girl with a heated look in her crystal blue eyes. “I thought it felt familiar, but I couldn’t figure it out at first.”

“What _is_ it made of?” Master Rancisis asks softly, threading his fingers through his mane of silver hair.

“Pick it up.” Siri prompts insistently, spinning to yank a case out of her friends hands.

“Really, Siri?” the older girl snaps, revealing a sharp fang for once.

“This is important!”

“So are your _manners_.”

“A notion I second, padawan.” Adi says sternly, and Siri looks back at her with stubbornness.

“Oh. How curious.” Master Rancisis remarks, holding the block in one leathery green hand. “It’s immune to the influence of the Force.”

“It’s more than that.” Siri insists, dumping out the case on the floor.

“_Siri_.” Adi scolds, as her padawan ignores her, shoving the pieces around into a rough circle which she then quickly hops out of.

“Step in – not _you_, Master Fay!” Siri says sharply, when the intrigued golden-haired master looks ready to do so. Master Fay lifts a brow at her, taken aback, and Siri turns a fierce gaze on Adi. Adi stares back for a moment, wondering what has possibly possessed her padawan now, and decides she may as well oblige. She steps into the circle, and shudders as the Force turns to white noise, numbing her senses and jarring her focus until she pulls herself in tightly, and the unnerving experience fades.

It’s like standing in the Senate Dome.

_Exactly_ like standing in the Senate Dome.


	13. Chapter 13

The lounge of the luxury transport, being the most likely place for the occupants to be during an incident, was built as a panic room. The walls were reinforced, an isolated power source was tied in to its emergency shields in case of shipwide power failure, recessed panels held emergency supplies, and, in the event of a crash or collision, it had been designed to separate from the rest of the ship, given enough pressure on the couplings which might indicate a fatal break.

Bail had been aware of all of these things – he just hadn’t expected to need them quite so early in his career. Together, they work on opening up the secure panels, pulling out the emergency supplies. It gets cold, and quickly, and he and Ben work on setting up the heat generators first, while Adjunct Bey tends to the life support, trying to get the secondary systems up and running. Bail knows, logically, that they are limited on air supply until he does, but his lungs aren’t yet aching for want of oxygen. He remains calm, and focused on the task at hand, and on his people.

They may serve and be willing to lay down their lives for him, but he is responsible for them, and he will not take that responsibility lightly.

“If you. Could. Please. Fit” Ben mutters darkly, trying to wedge a power cell into place on the heat generator.

“Turn it around.” Bail says absently, eyeing his friend. “Are you alright?”

The Jedi Master flips the cell around, and it clicks into place. He glowers at it, before lifting a more amicable gaze on Bail.

“I spent four years on a moderately humid desert planet. A binary star system.” He explains ruefully. “I don’t think I’ll ever fully recover my tolerance for cold.”

Bail doesn’t know whether to laugh or wince, so he just smiles consolingly instead, and takes note of the slight shivers the Jedi is already working up.

“I don’t suppose the Force can help you?” Bail inquires hopefully.

“There are a few techniques,” the Jedi nods. “ but all of them are dangerous to use for any significant duration. I’d rather wait and utilize whatever else we can first, considering I might need to step outside, if we’re to rescue the rest of your crew.”

Bail nods, though he’s a little troubled by that revelation.

“What sort of techniques?” Adjunct Bey inquires curiously, half wedged inside one of the walls, trying to reach a circuit not installed for easy access.

Ben looks to the adjunct, an odd little twitch to his lips before he replies that Bail wonders at.

“I could, bastardizing a few healing techniques, force myself into a fever to combat the heat loss.” The Jedi says. “Or draw extra pressure around myself to contain more of the heat I produce – however that technique is particularly tricky, as you tend to trap air as well as heat, and that can lead to oxygen deprivation. Once you’re dizzy enough, you lose focus, and the technique fails. You start over, and it becomes a cyclic endeavor. The third technique I could utilize I may yet have to, but it’s not something I can do and continue working. It will require a meditative focus with little distraction. I can use the force to agitate the molecules in the air to heat our cabin, but it’s all too easy to accidentally set the air on fire that way as well, and that would be… unfortunate.”

Lachas slides out of the panel and gives the Jedi a look. “Please don’t do that.” He says flatly. Ben just smiles amiably in return, and turns back to the generator.

“Sir, please don’t let him do that.” Lachas entreats, and Bail lifts his palms, eschewing responsibility.

“How are we doing on the environmental?” Bail inquires.

The adjunct slumps a little. “Not good, sir. The secondary circuits were damaged when the primary power relays blew. We’ll have to rely on the portables.”

“I appreciate your efforts, Adjunct Bey.” Bail says sincerely, feeling tired. More than tired, with the adrenaline wearing off.

“Can you find those scanners we spoke of?” Ben asks, letting out a relieved puff of air when the heat generator comes online. Bail smiles a little in relief, watching the start-up diagnostics on the generator run.

“On it.” Lachas nods, moving across the floor with a studious look on his face as he eyed the tiles beneath his feet, searching for the right one.

“Well,” Bail says, looking to Ben. “ are you still glad you agreed to accompany me?”

“Oh, Bail, I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.” Ben smirks at him, running a hand up to smooth back his hair, and Bail wants to laugh for it, because the man has just been through a ship crash and came out the other side looking impeccable. “All told, not the worst landing I’ve ever been in. I didn’t even break any bones.”

Bail wants to smile, but mostly ends up offering the jedi a rather discomfited look for that reply, as it implies that he has been in crashes were he _has_ broken bones. And Bail finds that _distressing_.

Ben catches the look and grimaces a little ruefully, opening his mouth to say something to lighten the mod once more, only to pause with a flinch as he turns towards the wall. He closes his mouth and looks down, and then looks to Bail with a guilty look of apology in his eyes.

Bail stares at him a moment, and then realizes what that look must mean. Someone else has died, and the jedi had _felt_ it.

Bail closes his eyes, rubbing a hand across them, and swallows against the stone in his chest.

“I have the scanner.” Adjunct Bey reports, striding over and dropping down to the floor to join the, unaware. “And the emergency beacon, though the signal might bounce a little in this ice field.”

“Our people _will_ find us.” Bail says with certainty, reassuring the man. Lachas Bey nods back at him.

“We’ll need to wire the scanner into the emergency airlock so it can tap into the external sensors.”

“And the emergency airlock is…?” Ben inquires.

“The hatch is under the table, which I’ll need help unbolting-“

There is an ear-piercing, grating screech, as the table pries up from the floor.

“ – or you can do that.” Bey mutters, as Ben moves the table with nothing more than a turn of his hand, and sets it down out of the way.

“Won’t the other side be buried in ice?” Bail inquires.

“Well,” Bey says. “ if the entire ship isn’t buried in ice, there are grav lifts and back-up thrusters – though I’m not those will have survived – on every edge of the emergency cabin, so we have some limited mobility.”

“We aren’t buried.” Ben says. “I have no doubt we’re in quite the trench, but I think I managed to keep us on the surface. I can always lift the ship if necessary for egress.”

“Beg pardon, you what?” Bey says blankly. Ben blinks back at him.

“When I guided the vessel down.” The jedi states. “I tried to keep us from being buried?”

“When you – you _guided_ the crash?”

“Well, I didn’t have much choice in the matter if we intended to survive.” The jedi frowns.

“That’s not – _thank you_ \- but you can _do_ that?” Lachas asks, voice thready, and Bail understands his strained belief perfectly, eyeing his jedi friend.

“I’ve had…experience.” The jedi says carefully. “It’s not a skill _every_ jedi master is capable of.”

Bey stares at him, hard, and then abprutly returns to duty, getting up and moving to the airlock hatch.

Ben looks innocently to Bail with a questioning brow, and Bail just shakes his head.

~*~

“Are you sure you need to go outside?” Lachas inquires, watching the readouts on the scanner and sitting on his heels at the hatch. He has decidedly blanked out all consideration of Jedi abilities, and he is…calmer, for it. For now, but for now is all he needs at the moment.

“What do the readings look like?” Naasade inquires, and Lachas notes that the man is rubbing at his chest, shivering lightly. The Senator, like Lachas, isn’t quite at that point yet, but then, they’re used to the chill mountain air, and the deep winters of their homeworld.

“Atmospheric pressure is a little thin.” Lachas reports, frowning a little. “but it’s…almost breathable.”

“Almost breathable is not _actually_ breathable.” The senator notes wryly.

“Yes and no, sir.” Lachas replies. “Oxygen content is really low, and the chlorine content is enough to be hazardous, but not immediately. The rest of it, however, is fairly close to human hospitable. We _do_ have the canisters to supplement oxygen for short EVA’s.”

“What about the temperature?” The jedi asks.

“Not as cold as you’d think?” Lachas offers. “Either something in this asteroid is producing thermal radiation or it’s caught in multiple gravities and the stress is generating heat. I’m reading negative forty-eight degrees celsuis.”

“Cold enough to flash-freeze skin.” The Jedi remarks. “But not cold enough to kill me the moment I step outside.”

“You’re really going to step outside?” Lachas inquires skeptically.

“If I intend to rescue the rest of the crew, I’ll need to.” The Jedi replies serenely, and Lachas has no counter for that. He wants to save those lives just as much as the Jedi does.

“We have four emergency EVA suits.” Lachas reports. “Or we have emergency thermal gear.”

“Why haven’t we gotten that out already?” The Jedi inquires, frowning irritably. Lachas winces apologetically. He hadn’t really been thinking about it, because he wasn’t terribly cold yet.

Lachas digs in to the compartments beneath the seats, and pulls out the sealed packages. All three of them don the loose coats.

“Fair warning, you’l generate a lot of static wearing that.” Lachas says.

“Consider me warned.” Naasade replies, huddling into the lining.

“Do you want the suit?” He asks.

“Just the helmet will be fine.” Naasade replies. Lachas fetches one of the cases. “And to think, I left mine back at the temple.”

“You have one?” the Senator inquires thoughtfully. “You weren’t wearing it on Mandalor.”

“I wanted to be recognized.” Naasade replies. “So as to send our message more effectively.”

Lachas adjusts the oxygen canister, setting it to disperse just enough to make up for the atmospheric deficiency. They needed to conserve resources. He hands the helmet and the oxygen harness to the Jedi, who slips them both on with quick efficiency.

“If I may ask, just what are you planning to do?” Senator Organa inquires. “You can’t trek the entire crash can you?”

“I won’t have to.” The Jedi replies, voice muffled. He switches on the comm projector. “I’ll bring the rest of the crash to me.”

“Sir…” Lachas hesitates. “ it’ll be spread out over miles.”

“Which is why I’m doing this from the roof, and not from in here.” The Jedi replies, as if this is only a minor inconvenience.

Lachas doesn’t understand why the shell of the emergency cabin presents a problem to the Jedi’s Force abilities, but then, Lachas isn’t a Jedi. Naasade lays a hand on his shoulder, as if sensing his doubt, and Lachas’ moods sours, because he remembers that that is something the Jedi can actually _do_.

“Think of it as a matter of providence.” The Jedi says. “You’re absolutely correct – this shipwreck spans a far greater distance than my own senses. However, there remain two elements which are constant – the wreckage is all a part of _this_ ship, and the ice, vast as it is, is a single entity. From a certain point of view these things aren’t separate at all. In which case, what is the distance? Nothing at all. _I_ may only be moving a few meters, but the point is to change my _perspective_ more than my location, and for that… I need to be able to reach the ice.”

“That still makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.” Lachas says. “Master Jedi.” He adds belatedly.

Naasade just shrugs, offering a jaunty two fingered salute as he pops open the airlock hatch, and drops down inside.

~*~

The cold storage, of all things, survived.

Then again, it was an extra four inches of insulated durasteel. Trip had woken buried in snow, his clothes soaked through, having instinctively wrapped himself up with the Force. He’d shoved the weight off of him in an explosion of glittering powder and sharp, needle-like shards that glinted somewhat oily in the dim gloomy light.

Which was something, because he hadn’t expected light at all in an ice belt like this in the middle of black space. But the snow had a faint, dingy luminescence to it. Phosphorous, maybe, or some chemical reaction. It certainly wasn’t water ice.

He could go several minute without breathing, if he wanted to remain awake. Hours, if he let himself slip into a trance.

Trip resists the urge. He can feel Bola nearby, and he rips the snow apart to find her, dragging her up. She’s unconscious, and even the light healing technique he applies won’t keep her alive for long.

But he also senses Jashmir, and that’s how he finds the cold storage, miraculously intact, remarkably well sealed. Air-tight, even. He pops the latch, holding the atmosphere in with the force, startling the other chef into screaming, and drop down in with Bola over his shoulder. He seals it back up, and takes a hasty breath before slowing the need to breath once more. There’s oxygen in here, but not that much. Bola doesn’t rouse.

“Wh-what happened?” Jashmir stutters, moaning a little, and they are in absolute darkness now, but the Third Brother can feel the man’s broken bones, and works on shuffling carefully to his side, pulling Bola with him. He stumbles over the mess of food in the crookedly settled container, slipping in shattered cake and solid hunks of cold meat. Jashmir whimpers when Trip lightly lands a hand on him, and it’s as he feared – the other cook is bleeding internally.

“We survived.” Trip tells him softly, soothing his pain through the Force. “That’s what happened. I’m here, and Bola’s here. We’re just waiting for rescue.”

“R-rescue c-coming?”

“Of course.” Trip breathes out. “Of course rescues is coming. So just rest now, and they’ll be here before you can blink.”

Jashmir whimpers again, but Trip lulls him into sleep, doing his best to stabilize Jashmir’s condition, and then Bola’s.

And then he tips his head back against the durasteel wall, shivering harshly, his skin burning up, and curses himself.

There had been _no_ warning, none.

The ship had just shuddered – no… Trip brings the memory to the forefront of his mind, delving into it, into his senses, into that moment…

There had been something…a pulse. Something had _struck_ the shields, and _then_ the power had overloaded. The shields had failed, and then they had hit something _again_.

It had to have been the ice fields. They must have drifted off-course and into the ice-fields, and struck an object while in hyperspace.

But how did they get off course? And why the power surge? Why did the shields fail?

Trip gets stuck on that thought for a moment, and realizes some time later that he had drifted off for far more than a moment.

_Not good_. He thinks.

And then the entire container slides, and his stomach drops out in terror, fearing that the ice is cracking beneath them, and they are about to fall into some unimaginable chasm.

And then he can feel the touch of warmth in the Force, an outpouring of _reassurance-safety-focus_ that would have soothed even a non-sensitive.

Naasade.

The cold storage unit lifts, and the shadow has no karking idea how the other Jedi is _doing_ it - they have to be _kilometers_ apart, from what Trip can sense – but he laughs in sheer relief that the other Jedi _is_ capable of doing it.

He really hadn’t been looking forward to freezing to death. Being stabbed, poisoned, run over by a hover-bus, sure, he’s aware that he’ll likely not die well, but freezing to death?

Like most sane sentient's, he’d rather go quickly into the Force.

Trip holds tightly to himself, trying not to lean to much into the other man’s Force presence, as warm and reassuring as it was, but he opens up his senses, and he can feel the sheer _span_ of it. Like dawn breaking through the black, stretching out rosy golden rays to sweep them up, and Trip can feel them coming together, the torn up segments of the ship, shielding such fragile lives, drawn in towards the beacon like filaments to a lodestone.

The set down isn’t particularly gentle, and Trip hisses, his displaced ribs making themselves known. But then the hatch is thrown open, and Naasade is there.

“Jashmir-“ Trip says. “He’s-“

Something hard is pressed against his mouth, and Trip sucks in air as it’s all but pressurized into his lungs. Sweet oxygen cools the burning sensation he’d been pushing aside, and his head clears some. He’s pulled upright, pressed briefly against a shoulder.

“You did well.” Naasade murmurs, and then he is lifting them out, one by one, there and then so quickly into motion that Trip almost thinks he imagined it.

The exposure to the outside is brief, between his meager shelter and the airlock, but it’s a bitter and cruel few moments, trudging through snow, the vacant air stinging in his lungs even with the breather.

And then he’s inside, and he’s warm, and he realizes he might just survive.


	14. Chapter 14

“ – again.” Obi-Wan calls, getting dirty looks from full-grown knights identical to those his master gets from the initiates they take to Ilum.

“Padawan Kenobi, I think we’ve master-_yuh_!” The knight yelps, flung back from his sparring partner and his spot in the dojo by a push in the Force, and Obi-Wan ignites his blade, jumping in in one of the most basic Shii-Cho assaults. The knight reacts, bringing up his guard on instinct, and instinct fails him when Obi-Wan brings all his presence in the Force to bear, driving forward. The knight leaps back, and Obi-Wan lowers his blade. He disengages his lightsaber and clips it back to his belt, his entire class having faltered and stopped to watch.

They had grasped the concept of the staircase, of changing up and down, but the final element to incorporating such a skill into actual combat training, where they would not have the time to pause and think, was to teach them something both simpler and harder: Do not move.

Their task was to spar, and refuse to give ground, by taking the concepts they had been taught and applying them to do this one simple thing. Outwardly, it might seem like a contradicting lesson, but the principle was identical: you shape the world. If this is where you are standing, then shape the world so you cannot be moved. If you could master _that_, then shaping a world where you can move _anywhere_ was an easy affair.

But their instincts failed them – or their training did. They lost focus under pressure, under threat, and moved or twisted -which admittedly, they should do, to save life and limb and take advantage. But that wasn’t the lesson today. Today was about overcoming what you knew. It was about trusting yourself.

Obi-Wan isn’t sure if the failing is theirs or his. This had been one of his hardest lessons to learn, and he wasn’t his master.

“Padawan Didda, you are allowed to observe. Not participate.” Obi-Wan calls, as the weequay padawan from the Temples of Vormijj attempted, again ,to emulate what they were practicing, with no understanding of the actual technique at all.

Someone took advantage of his momentary distraction, and threw the Force at him. Obi-Wan staggers, puts up a hand to stop himself against – well, nothing at all, really – and then shapes a world where he cannot be touched, and all of that pressure and motion slides past him like wind around stone.

Several of the students around him, however, get caught in the shove.

“Enough!” Master Drallig snaps, having been critiquing a senior padawans fighting form to make her more effective against her opponent, who had quailed a little.

“What kind of shielding technique _is_ that?” The knight he’d challenged demands.

“It’s not a shield.” Obi-Wan replies. “It’s no different at all from what you’ve been learning.”

“But _how_ are you doing it?” A padawan asks, frustrated. Obi-Wan frowns, struggling to figure out how to explain in a way they could understood that he hasn’t come up with already. There was a disconnect between himself and his students he couldn’t quite breech. “He can’t even touch you with the Force and I – I didn’t think that was possible.” The padawan says, looking nervous for having to say it.

“That’s the _problem_.” Obi-Wan says, trying not to let his own frustration seep out to become theirs, trying o clear the room of it as it was.

“What?” They blurt, confused.

“Stop thinking that things aren’t possible.” Obi-Wan says, and it sounds stupid and yet stupidly, it is perhaps the most important lesson his master has tried to drill into his head, summed up in five succinct words. “There is no limit to the Force, save the limits you impose upon it. And upon yourself.”

“That’s a dangerous line of thought.” Master Mundi says, and Obi-Wan tenses, turning to find that more than one councilor has joined the observers.

He blinks at the Councilor, trying to come up with something appropriately neutral to say, and yet all he can think of at that moment is a crecheling tale he only half remembers.

“’_Shade your eyes, child_.’” Obi-Wan recites. “_’The sky was not meant for you_.’”

The Cerean’s expression lights, but Obi-Wan immediately feels mortified. Maybe his master _does_ have a reason for chiding his cheek. That’s the second time in a week he’s behaved poorly with a master of the Council.

“I see Master Windu’s point.” He Cerean remarks, and Obi-Wan feels his ears and neck flush red, and lowers his eyes. Were the Council really…discussing him privately? Was he in _trouble_?

“Try me!” Sian blurts out, darting away from her sparring partner and towards Obi-Wan with determination. Obi-Wan blinks, because too many people keep changing the subject on him.

Then, of course, Sian raises her saber at him, and Obi-Wan knows exactly what she means, and if he doesn’t get to it, she _will_.

“Reverse grip.” Obi-Wan says, knowing she preferred one but still insisted on training with a forward grip, because her master disliked the reverse.

Her eyes gleam and she twirls the pink blade, and brings up an interesting guard; Her fist is level with her face, her blade pointing straight down in line with her balance, her stance looking like she might spring at any moment, but her feet grounded to the floor. Obi-Wan lifts a brow in challenge, and she grins, flashing her sharper teeth. He palms and ignites his saber, draws himself up in the Force, and leaps, crashing down upon her. She ducks and blocks, her guard spinning and twisting like a pissed off eel, crashing against his own with a vicious crackle of energy, and he drives and he drives, and she _does not move_.

Obi-Wan retreats, gesturing with a hand for her to come at him, and she launches forward. They slam together, blades twisting, and she flings herself up – and lands on nothing at all. She crouches down on her invisible ledge and grins over him. “Like that?” She purrs.

Obi-Wan smiles brightly. “Exactly like that.”

Several other students sigh in frustration.

“How’d you _do_ it?” Someone complains, no doubt feeling slighted to be outdone by yet another junior padawan.

“Well, it’s the same thing as the staircase.” Sian says simply. “It’s about your own truth. Obi-Wan is my friend, and he’s _amazing,_ but I know there’s nothing about him that’s inherently just _better_ than I am. So I figure:” She shrugs lightly, and drops down to the floor. “If Obi-Wan can do it, so can I. And I don't just believe it - I _know_ it, as surely as I know my own name."

Obi-Wan half smiles at her, brow furrowed, because he’s not certain if that was inspiration or spite. Sian just smiles wickedly at him.

“Right.” He says, addressing the class. “So let’s try again.”

~*~

“ – clearly invested in the future of the Jedi, and yet you have not turned your son over to the creche?”

Tholme pauses near the end of the row of stacks, hearing a conversation just around the corner in the archives. He knows Shmi is standing there, and who else could the speaker be addressing, with a question like that?

The coil of anger that churns in his bones, however, surprises him, and he takes a moment to dispel it. The _gall_ of such a question.

“My _sons_ are people, and they have names.” Shmi replies. “They are not _things_, to be passed from one hand to another with so little care for the lives they have, as opposed to the lives others want to decide for them.”

“That is not what I intended to say-“

“But it _is_ what you said.” Shmi replies sharply.

This is the first Tholme has heard of anyone addressing Shmi in such a way, but he has heard various mutterings from their guests as to her… suitability for her role.

“You believe that my divergence from the way of things is anathema, and yet you are here because the way of tings must change.”

“But to maintain order, surely you agree that-“

“Order?” Shmi repeats. “You cannot maintain order over people as if they are datapads on a shelf, _master_.” She doesn’t spit or sneer the word, but it is _cold_, coming off her tongue.

Tholme has a hair-trigger sense of someone coming up behind him a bare breath before Shaak Ti lightly brushes his arm, and he turns to glare at the togruta woman with his good eye. She smiles serenely at him, and he does not buy for a moment that she is not unseemingly pleased with herself for her Shadow-like mischief.

“Do you know whom she is arguing with?” Shaak Ti inquires with a light whisper.

“I couldn’t say.” Tholme mutters, just as soft so as not to be heard.

“I do believe that is Grand Master Savigo, of Eedit.” Shaak Ti informs him, looking….satisfied?

“Are you going to interfere?” Tholme inquires, vaguely connecting the name to the recollection of an elderly devaronian man with long, gnarled horns.

“Why should I?” Shaak Ti replies, amused. “Shmi is doing quite well speaking for herself.”

“You aren’t concerned for diplomacy?”

Shaak Ti raises a brow. “My padawan is doing diplomacy justice, I think.” The Togruta Master smiles, eyeing him. “You’re too often in the field, as opposed to at the table, Master Tholme. I fear you’ve begun to mistake diplomacy for nicety. You do not achieve you goals by _always_ giving ground.”

“You seem oddly pleased.” Tholme remarks.

“I rather think I should.” Shaak Ti replies with quiet victory. “A year ago I don’t believe she’d have dared to look him in the eye, knowing who and what he was.” She smiles at him, her fingers squeezing his arm briefly. “You’ve had a part to play in that, I think.”

“Me?”

“What, do you think she taught herself to stand her ground by arguing with _me_?”

Tholme looks at her. In so far as he knows, Shmi and her Master rarely ever even _disagree_. He doubts they truly _argued_ in any regard. “I suppose not.”

“There is a line between respect of authority and fear that Shmi has struggled with – still struggles with. But I can see her overcoming it, and after that…” Shaak Ti hums a little, her montals buzzing in a way that makes his ears twitch. “I don’t think there will be much more I have to teach her.”

Tholme startles. “You’re going to knight her?” He asks, taken aback. “She’s been a padawan less than three years.”

“She’s wiser than most currently wearing that rank.” Shaak Ti replies, chiding him lightly with her eyes to speak more softly. “She has her schooling to finish yet, and that will take at least another year, perhaps two, but she came to me with her wits and talents already well developed, and under the new rules, she’ll never be alone in the field, not for years and only _if_ that restriction ever changes. That gives us time to expand her experience with fieldwork, but all told… I believe she’ll wear knighthood well.”

“Still, making a jedi in just four years…many will say she won’t be ready – couldn’t be.”

“Making?” The togrtua tuts. “A Jedi is not _made_, Tholme, they merely learn who they are.”

_Do they_? Tholme thinks of Quinlan, and the sickly shade of yellow that haunts him, the cold, and the way the teenager holds Aayla Secura’s hand in spite of it, and carries one of those atrocious little pluch monsters around on his belt, and the breathtaking sense of promise he possesses when meditating side by side with Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Perhaps she senses her thoughts, for her voice turns softer, kinder, and offers him a consoling, sympathetic gaze.

“But there is no final test.” She murmurs. “In truth, the learning goes on forever. But they only learn some of it from us. The rest they must learn from themselves, and we must learn to let them.”

“That’s no easy thing.” Tholme sighs.

“No.” She agrees ruefully. “It isn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: A bit of an interlude chapter, but eh.
> 
> Your comments on this story though! I love watching you all speculatd and it's great, but sometimes I tug think you forget that what you know, not all my characters do! 
> 
> So I'll give you a few;  
Ben knows Lachas is in the Royal Service.  
Ben also has _no idea _about the Alderaan Investigation.  
Ben forgets how much more he knows than everyone else because in his time, the other generals knew a lot of it too. And for all _ his_ power in the Force, he never held a candle compared to Anakin. Way to keep a guy humble.  
Ben survived the Jedi Purges. He can spot someone hiding or disguised, like Trip, because he _ knows _ all the tricks, and what they look like. He also knows their weaknesses (because any flaw in your technique, and the Empire (Vader) _ would_ find you. And then you were dead.)  
Does that mean he knows Trip? No. But he can recognize him for what he is.
> 
> _And as to the Sith in the Senate and the problem with the Force, remember: if Adi can work around it, so can they._
> 
> _Happy Labor Day, everybody!_


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: This chapter is brought to you by my _ buir_. I was binge-watching Daredevil and she insisted i release the next chapter. And here it is. Tada.
> 
> Love you, Amu!

If you weren’t actively using the Force, the coral felt completely ordinary and unassuming in your hand. In a broken circle around, it felt numbing and discordant, frustrating and buzzing and resistant. In a closed circle… it felt suffocating, trying to pull on the Force, like trying to breathe air that didn’t have enough oxygen in it.

“But protect yourself, you can.” Master Yoda commented gravely, addressing Adi while prodding Master Fay away from him with his gimmer stick.

Adi stood before the Council, with Siri and Sian Jeisel standing just aside and behind her.

“Yes, Master Yoda.”

“Show us.” He prompts. Adi steels herself, and steps inside the ring of blocks on the floor once again, drawing herself in.

“I’ve been trying to teach her how to shield more than herself, but it is…a work in progress.” Master Fay remarks.

“A mere shield, you think this is?” Yoda harrumphs, smirking faintly at his grandmaster, who scowls at him for his impertinence. “No. Shield oneself from the lack of the Force – done, this cannot be. Cut you apart from the Force, this material does. But within us, the Force is also. Cut off from the Force, Knight Gallia is – from the Force around her. Channelling solely that which is within herself – she is. Tricky, that is. Not taught, it is. Difficult to master, it was, hm?” Yoda asks her.

“I’m not sure, Master Yoda.” Adi replies honestly. “It is not something I set out to learn. Merely a technique I developed as I accompanied my master throughout his duties in the Senate. I did not truly realize what I was doing until it was pointed out to me.”

“Hm. A natural, then, you are. Powerful, you always were. Gather that power within, you do. But more to it – I believe there is. Cut off completely, you are not, in the Senate. Channel power through the resistance of this material, you do as well. Demonstrate, you should.” He prompts.

Adi frowns slightly, and pulls on the Force, through the fatigueing white noise and numbness caused by the coral. It resists, slow and reluctant, and Adi truly focuses on what she does next, on how she does it.

She stops drawing, letting instinct guide her, as she has done for years without realizing, an unintended reflex, like a muscle memory. She pushes out the Force that is within herself, creating a channel – a path of least resistance – and the Force comes back in to her, warm and invigorating, and she lets out a relieved breath. She constantly feeds out, and as long as she feeds out, and it comes back to her, a small exchange for greater power.

_Not a shield_, Adi thinks ruefully, and glances at her padawan, who had suffered her efforts in that regard.

_But something I think I _can_ teach_.

“And the learning, in truth, goes on forever.” Master Fay murmurs, smiling wryly, acknowledging her own fault. She then reaches out and tweaks Master Yoda’s ear, and the venerable jedi thwacks at her hand with his stick, and misses, grumbling irritably.

“We need to discern where and how this was placed in the Senate.” Master Windu comments, frowning pensively, resolutely ignoring the undignified exchange.

“We need to move cautiously within the Senate.” Master Koon adds. “This is merely another facet brought to light. We are discovering now that these are very dangerous times. Let us try and avoid having to pay the price of that discovery.”

“Agreed, we are.” Master Yaddle nods somberly.

Adi can feel fresh waves of uncertainty and worry from her padawan – and a trickle of fear, and reaches back to soothe them, stepping out and away from the circle.

Padawan Jeisel hesitates, and then steps forward to pick up the pieces. They belonged to a game, after all, and the game had been a gift to her meant in kindness. That it turned out to mean so much more was only… remarkable fortune.

“… masters?” Padawan Jeisel speaks up quietly, having collected them all into her case.

“Speak, you may, Padawan Jeisel.” Master Fisto says kindly. Sian nods, her resolve solidifying into her typical confidence.

“It might be of interest to you to know that Obi – that Padawan Kenobi _can_ affect the coral with the Force.” She says, a trace of hesitation in her voice that suggests she does not want to add even more responsibility to her friends shoulders. “He was asked to do so on Moia to demonstrate that the game could not be rigged, and he managed to break one of the pieces.”

“_Naasade’s_ padawan.” Master Piell says, in a tone that suggests there is some special point to that, but Adi doesn’t quite grasp it.

“Thank you for that information, Padawan Jeisel.” Master Windu nods. Sian nods respectfully and steps back.

Adi glances around the Council as they gathered their thoughts, her own turning over.

_Padawan Kenobi and Master Naasade_. She thinks. _At some point, you would think that everything that has happened would stop coming back around to them_.

A prickle dances up her spine, and the Force teases around that thought.

~*~

“Stop. Stop. _Stop_, you need to stop.”

Trip grit his teeth, struggling – first against the hands, and then against the pressure of the suggestion. The other jedi places a hand on his forehead, and Trip finds himself staring into a stern blue-grey gaze, flecked with green.

“Easy.” The other jedi murmurs. “Easy.”

“It burns.” Trip hisses, feeling the acidic bite flare across his skin.

“I know. Just breathe. Breathe, and relax, and let me help you lessen the pain.” Master Naasade says quietly, still applying pressure in the Force. Trip nods, though his hands ache for clenching them ,to stop him from writhing at his skin.

There had been something in the snow, some chemical, that had soaked their clothes, and caused lesions. At first they’d mistaken it for simple frostbite, until it had transferred onto those who hadn’t been outside at all, merely from touching those who had been.

Trip could push the pain down and aside, make himself stop feeling it, but he was injured and trying to heal. For a while he would be fine, but he’d fall sleep in a light trance, and once he went deep enough into unconsciousness, the technique would fail, and he’d start feeling it again, until it woke him up, and he’d struggle like this.

His skin burned, and it hurt to breathe, both for his displaced ribs and for - as he’d been informed - the fact that he’d apparently been breathing in chlorine while he was outside.

Trip focuses, breathing in in spite of it, and lets himself relax into the other Jedi’s suggestion, feeling it take root, and the sensations fade. He tried to sit back up, but Naasade wouldn’t let him, and wisely so. He may not be able to feel the pain, but that merely meant he couldn’t tell when he was harming himself further.

“And don’t scratch.” Naasade chides, and the Third Brother glowers at him. The only reason the other jedi wasn’t in the same maddening straits was because Naasade refused to let himself fall asleep. He was busy keeping Jashmir, Bola, and Olissa - the surviving pilot – stable and alive. Still, he had stripped out of his soaked clothes and had carefully bandaged lesions all up and down his limbs a well.

And he appeared to struggle with keeping his own advice, so Trip doesn’t want to hear it.

~*~

Lachas watches the jedi master tend to the cook - a stocky, dark skinned noorian with green-and-silver striped eyes and fluffy white hair – and worries. His own hands ache and burn, having helped bring the survivors inside, but he’s treated them as best they were able, and pulled gloves on to prevent himself from accidentally transferring any more of the chemical element around. He’s just really glad he hadn’t touched his face before they figured out what was happening.

Or the Senator, for that matter.

Lachas glances at Senator Organa, who is helping Adjunct Espana prepare rations for everyone and telling a story about his first attempt to drive in Coruscanti traffic. It’s humorous, self-depreciating, and angaging – but then, that was the Senator’s typical manner. The story is a helpful distraction, but his steady, warm presence and good spirits help more so to steady everyone’s nerves. Listening to him and Naasade banter could even make Lachas forget, momentarily, that they were stranded on an inhospitable chunk of ice.

Lachas resists a sigh and rubs carefully under the botton of his nose with the back of his wrist, scratching and itch and trying not to tense up with stress. Everytime he tensed up, he drew attention from the Senator and the Jedi, and it made him even more stressed, because _his_ duty was to be looking after _them_.

_At least until we get back to Alderaan._ Lachas thinks morosely. He had little hope of his career surviving this disaster. He was responsible for ensuring things like this didn’t happen, and from what he could put together, with bits and pieces of the puzzle from the surviving pilot and Naasade and what he’d been able to salvage from the nav-com core when Naasade was performing rescue, this hadn’t been mere accident. This had been sabotage.

Which meant he had missed something, in all his safety checks and threat assessments and security investigations, and allowed this to happen, and had nearly cost the Senator his life. Still might - but Lachas refused to believe it would come to that. He _will not_ fail Queen Breha so utterly, no matter what may come of him afterwards.

“Adjunct Bey?” Senator Organa calls his name, and Lachas snaps to attention only to discover the senator is offering him his portion of the rations. The spy blinks, and forces the shy smile of an anxious attendant.

“Thank you, Senator.” He says sincerely, accepting the bowl. He winces, as the heat and weight sting his hands through the gloves, and Senator Organa winces too, frowning apologetically.

“Do you need help?” The Senator inquires, reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder, and Lachas stiffens, because he is not going to be spoon fed by the man he is supposed to be protecting.

“I’ll be fine, sir.” Lachas says, glad for the cap that shadows his eyes as he glances away from that understanding smile as the Senator nods in respect and moves on.

He accidentally catches Naasade’s eye, and the jedi is looking at him thoughtfully. Lachas just stares back at him, feeling tired, and a sense of ease seems to wrap around him, clearing his fatigue and easing pain. Lachas shivers lightly at the strange feeling and frowns at the jedi, because he both appreciates the support and greatly dislikes being affected by jedi tricks. Someone _else_ does that to him enough already.

Naasade quirk a brow, glances slyly at the Seantor, and then back at Lachas with a pointed gaze, and the Alderaani spy’s stomach sinks, because there is _too much_ of a point to that gaze, and Lachas does believe that he has been made.

_Kriffing Jedi_.


	16. Chapter 16

“Bant. Bant, I really don’t have _time_ for this-“ Obi-Wan protests, still trying to rub sleep out of his eyes.

“You really do.” The Mon Calamari insists, dragging him along.

“Bant, it is _after hours_-“

“That’s the _point_, Obi.” Bant teases. “Come on! This is the only chance we’ll get.”

“Chance for what?” Obi-Wan inquires skeptically as he is pulled along after her, deeper into the gardens, where she is taking him for mysterious purposes he’s not entirely sure he should be involved in, judging by the excited glee coming off of his usually mellow-mannered friend.

“To relax.” Bant rolls her large silver eyes. Given that she is Mon Calamari, her eyes roll independently of each other and out of sync, and Obi-Wan has always found that slightly unsettling. “And show our guests that we can have a little fun. Master Tahl suggested it.”

“Our guests?”

“There you are!” Siri hisses, and Obi-Wan startles, because his friends were hiding themselves well, but there was Siri, Tsui, Iara, and Shmi, who looked tired and confused. All the council padawans, Obi-Wan notes.

And in their company were Padawan’s Damsin, Dai Soboc, Didda - the weequay padawan from Vormijj, and Paru - the pa’uan archival padawan from the Falang Temple. All the padawans from the visiting temples.

“I have a bad feeling about this.” Obi-Wan mutters, eyeing Bant, and wondering how and why she got herself involved. She wasn’t a Council padawan, and wasn’t even particularly involved with the congregation. Then again…Obi-Wan glances a Siri and Tsui, and thinks guiltily that they really haven’t had much time for their friends of late.

“Well, shut up about it so I don’t get a bad feeling about it too.” Siri huffs, glancing around the darkened gardens nervously as Bant joined Tsui with a smile and the two led them around the edge of the tropical gardens, which were filled with steam, and onto a rocky ledge around one of the drops. He glowers at their backs, but skirts the edge of the dark hole in their wake, checking on those behind him as he went.

“I feel like, as an adult, maybe we shouldn’t be doing this?” Padawan Iara – Yoda’s padawan – says nervously to Shmi, though there is a bubble of childish excitement in her voice.

“I do not even know what we are doing.” Shmi replies. “But my teacher encouraged me to indulge in a little…harmless rule-breaking.”

Obi-Wan wants to twist around to look at her, wondering how _that_ encounter went if Bant or Tsui or whomever came knocking on their door in the middle of the night. It doesn’t particularly surprise him that Master Ti would be a little amused by such antics, or that she might encourage Shmi to participate.

“We aren’t defacing anything, are we?” Padawan Damisn inquires. “I’m not allowed to be involved in the defacing of public property for at least another six months.”

“What?” Siri asks, her voice a rustle in the dark.

“There was an incident.” Taria says cheerfully. “On our last mission.”

“What happens if I fall of this ledge?” Didda inquires speculatively.

“Don’t.” Several voices respond.

“Well, I _know_. But what _happens_?” The weequay inquires. “What’s below us?”

“Um…” Obi-Wan thinks, trying to make sense of the winding fountains and gardens in his head. “Swamp, I think?”

“Oh. Gross.”

Tsui snorts at that remark, and Obi-Wan can finally feel more space open up around the ledge, his clothes sticking tacky to his skin with the humidity. They’ve made their way into a grotto of lightly glowing pools with murky depths, a mosaic pressed right into the natural carved stone, an underwater depiction of a wedding involving an aquatic species Obi-Wan doesn’t recognize. It’s still a beautiful piece of art, and unexpected.

“Oh, wow.” Taria Damsin whistles, her golden eyes lit with the faint green glow. “You wouldn’t find something like this in our temple.”

“Nor mine.” Didda murmurs.

Bant and Tsui share pleased grins.

“Are we swimming?” Shmi inquires, and Obi-Wan notices at last that she had her robe thrown on over her pajamas, and wonders if Master Ti hadn’t just _shoved_ her out the door to go have fun.

“Skinny dipping.” Bant says brightly.

“Oh now that – _that_ we do on Correllia.” Damsin beams, and strips out of her shirt. “Except we sneak out to the jungle to do it.”

Padawan Dai Soboc makes a gurgled, affronted noise and flings the edge of his headscarf over his eyes, frantically signing with one hand.

“Oh dear.” Bant mutters. “I’m so sorry, is that – is this offensive to his culture? I didn’t even consider-“ She looks worriedly over the group, most of whom, but not _all_ of whom, had grown up in jedi communal dorms, and hadn’t been raised with any particular aversion to nudity.

“Oh, he’s just being a big baby.” Taria snorts, dropping her shirt primly on the ground and crossing her arms, glowering up at her brother padawan. “On Kalee they have these great big steam huts.” She explains. “But they bathe by age groups, and nudity outside of bathing, ritual, or healing is considered vulgar or dishonorable. You know, aside from sex. Skinny dipping, Rudaban, is like bathing. We’re just bathing in a place that we might get in trouble for bathing in – _not_ because it’s sacred. It’s just, you know, a fountain. Not really intended for teenaged shananegans.” She explains, and he lowers the scarf, gleaming yellow eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Somebody back me up?” Taria mutters.

“There’s no harm in it.” Bant says. “Maybe a little rule-breaking, but no harm.”

Iara burst into giggles, and all the padawans turn to find the Zabrak with her face buried in her hands. “This is ridiculous.”

“Yup, and right now I’m the only one half naked, so somebody join me.” Taria drawls.

“Last one in is a bantha’s behind!” Siri shouts, shucks her robe and tunic, and takes a leap off the edge of the grotto.

“Siri!” Tsui protests, yanking on his own tunic. Obi-Wan grins and tugs his shirt over his head, but takes a moment to pause and fold his clothes – and stop by Padawan Dai Soboc.

“You don’t have to strip all the way if you’re uncomfortable.” He reassures the kaleesh shaman turned padawan, who always stiffens and never seems to know what to do with his hands when Obi-Wan talks to him, which is unfortunate, as his hands were their best way to communicate. Obi-Wan only understood about half of his signs, but the managed a few stilted and awkward conversations, Obi-Wan mostly blushing because the kaleesh man had been so very excited to meet him.

He signs, and has to sign his message a few times for Obi-Wan to get the gist of it.

~ _Little Sister is trouble_. ~

Obi-Wan grins, claps him consolingly on the arm, and makes his way over to the pool, just letting himself tip off the edge of stone.

The water catches him and sucks him down, warm to the point of stinging, and it flares in brightness. Obi-Wan can see the fronds of some kind of kelp or seaweed reaching gentle up from the murky depth, and small trails bubbles. He breaks the surface for a gulp of air, and Tsui leaps on his head.

“Fu-“ Obi-Wan sputters and grabs, while Tsui tries to leap away, and he wrestles the Aleen down with him, at least until someone – Bant, Obi-Wan thinks – grabs him with the Force and spins him like clothes in the wash, rescuing the Aleen, who swims off to freedom. Obi-Wan breaks the surface again and splashes at his friends.

“You cheats!”

“Like _you’re_ a fair opponent?” Siri snorts, splashing him from behind. Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, turning to face her, and brushes his hair back. Shmi and Iara have dipped themselves into the pool, staying by the edge and watching everyone else with amusement. Dai Soboc has stripped to his underclothes and sat on the edge, his legs hanging in the pool while he cupped water to splash across his chest and back. Obi-Wan notices the scars that warp his throat and chest, but doesn’t stare, and wonders if the kaleesh really even knows how to swim. He might not.

“This is a lot like the pools around the Falang Temple.” Padawam Paru says thoughtfully, swishing her long fingers through the water just to watch it brighten. “There are many caves, and the water shines blue in them, like the bugs.”

“Ugh, please don’t mention bugs.” Padawan Didda shudders. “I’ll freak out the second something touches my foot.”

“You _probably_ shouldn’t have said that.”

“I’ll kick anyone in the face.” The weequay retorts, daring any of them to try and test her. Obi-Wan grins and shrugs.

“I believe that.” Taria replies, her blue-green hair spooling around her head as she bobs in the water, the strands tendril-like, her eyes almost glowing with the close reflection. She looks like some elemental sea-witch from an old fable, Obi-Wan thinks.

Just slightly less likely to drag him into the depths, drown him, and wear his bones in her hair.

Obi-Wan never really forgave Bant for making him read the _real_ fables, dispelling the positive recollections he’d had of the ones the crechelings learned their letters on.

“Hi, Obi-Wan Kenobi.” The corellian padawan smiles, wading closer to him.

“Hi, Taria Damsin.” Obi-Wan chirps back, feeling his face heat a little and trying to convince himself it was the pool.

“She’s right, you know.” Taria says.

Obi-Wan is confused. “That she’ll kick anyone in the face?”

“Not her.” Taria snickers. “The other one - er…Sorrel?”

“Siri.” Obi-Wan provides.

“Yeah, her. You _aren’t_ a fair opponent.” Taria sighs, looking at him intensely, which isn’t helping his blush any. “How are you so _good_?”

“Uh…”

“Believe nothing he says!” Tsui pops up right beside Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan dunks him. Tsui just bobs back up, spitting water at Obi-Wan, who bats it away.

“He hasn’t said anything yet.”

“I know.” Tsui replies serenely.

“Don’t say it.” Obi-Wan warns.

“Oh, now we have to know.” Didda swims closer, and Obi-Wan sinks in the water a bit, because he had been talking to _Taria_.

“Say what?” Pura inquires.

Obi-Wan blows bubbles, glowering at his friends.

“His master.” Tsui says. “ is-“

“A _great_ master.” Obi-Wan interjects, kicking up so he can speak.

“ – a slave-driver.” Siri pipes up, paddling over.

“He is not!”

“There is literally an open challenge against him invoked out of concern for your welfare.” Bant points out, floating effortlessly.

“I’m fine.” Obi-Wan groans, splashing at her. “And kindly don’t fail to mention that that is _your_ masters fault, Bant.”

“You _are_ fine.” Taria mutters, and then winces a bit, and _maybe_ her face changes color, but it’s harder to tell on her brown skin.

“Anyways…” Siri continues, a little less coordinated at treading water than the rest of them. “His entire first year as a padawan Obi-Wan was basically the most pitied student in the Temple. You’d see him staggering around half-dead and falling asleep at dinner, _if_ you saw him at all.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was exactly that bad.” Bant says, burbling a little with water in her gills. “And the only thing that’s changed is that now you have the endurance to match your ridiculously difficult training.”

“I thought you _liked_ training with me.” Obi-Wan points out, huffing.

“Yeah, but I train with you maybe once a quarter. You train like that _every_ day.”

“Can we talk about literally anything else?” Obi-Wan whines.

“Be glad Sian isn’t here.” Tsui mutters. Obi-Wan looks at him flatly, nods, and promptly lets himself sink.

His friends pull hm back up.

“Well, you can’t argue with the results.” Taria says appreciatively. “Sitting in on that class you taught was pretty spectacular.”

“Thank you.” Obi-Wan replies. “But seriously, can we not talk about me?”

“But you’re so very _interesting_.” Bant coos, petting the side of his face, the empath casting waves of cheery humor that Obi-Wan couldn’t help but grin with. It didn’t stop him from shoving her though.

“How about we let our guests tell us something interesting?” Shmi inquires, to Obi-Wan’s relief and rescue, venturing away from the wall cautiously. Obi-Wan knows she’s had swimming lessons – and he taught Anakin to swim himself – but she spent most of her life on a desert world. Swimming was not natural to her. “They come from very different places, after all.”

“Oh, I’d love to hear about the other temples!” Iara says, not quite brave enough to venture away from the ledge. “What’s your favorite thing about your temples?” She asks.

Tsui and Bant nudge each other, and Obi-Wan glances at them. They seem to be challenging each other to see who can get to the bottom and back the fastest, and Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. Tsui’s a _fast_ swimmer, but Bant’s a Mon Calamri. She’s literally _born_ to swim.

“The ceilings.” Taria says.

“What?”

“We have all these tall arched ceilings back home.” Taria explains. “And they’ve been painted by various jedi artists over the millenia. They’re all these amazing skyscape perspectives, so if you’re looking up, walking the halls, you can see what it’s like to walk under a hundred different horizons. When I was a youngling I tried to count them all, tried to figure out which worlds they belonged to so I could go out into the galaxy and find the real thing to compare…. I never really got very far, though, before my crechemaster caught me sneaking out.”

Half of them snicker, imagining it.

“There is a garden of light in-“

Bant breaks the surface, sputtering, wide-eyed and shoving. “Go -go -go!” She shrieks, pushing at Obi-Wan.

“What?”

“_Go_!” Bant urges, surging to the edge of the grotto. Tsui pops up behind her, zipping for the edge.

“Not good. Not good.” The Aleen mutters, scrambling out of the pool.

“Bant, Tsui, what-?”

“Master _Fisto_ is down there!” She blurts. “And we just interrupted his meditation!”

The padawans all glance at each other in muted horror, and then they make a scrambling, panicked break for it.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: I'm not dead! Sorry all, i've spent the last several days doing my National Guard service, and I have literally not had time to write.

Click-click-click-clack.

The sound sends a thrill of terror down his spine, and Obi-Wan races through the dense shadows of the trees, catching glimpses of things from the corners of his eyes, tall shapes with luminous red gazes, flashing at him from the dark.

Click-click-click-clack.

There is something precious cradled in his hands, something he _must_ protect.

A life.

Click-click-click-clack.

An egg, soft and peachy colored.

Click-click-click-clack.

A baby, blue eyed and blazing in the Force.

Obi-Wan breaks out of the trees and into a clearing, but instead of lightening, the sky only grows darker. He is not standing in a field, but on loose, glittering black scree.

The forest behind him seems to fall away, and lava rises up. Fire licks at his boots, and heat from molten rock buffets blisteringly at his skin.

Yet inside, he feels achingly cold.

Freezing.

His hands are empty, that tiny, brilliant thing he was meant to protect gone, lost-

“No.” Obi-Wan turns, panicked and furious and flooded by grief all in the same breath. “No! No!” He shouts, turning, looking, but he can’t find it, he can’t find anything.

There is nothing here, but the unbearable heat and the violent cold.

Ash rains from the sky, and he blinks, watching it fall, blinking in from his lashes.

The panic fades, as he stares at the dark sky.

“I’m dreaming.” He says, realizing. He looks around again, one hand pressed to that empty, vicious bite of cold inside him, walking across the scree, fire spitting off of his heels.

“Master?” He calls out, because Obi-Wan is dreaming, was dreaming, but this place… he doesn’t think he’d dream of this place. The forest, the Yam’rii, that life in his hands – those haunt his nightmares often enough, but this _feels_ different.

A familiar sort of different. So he goes looking for his master.

He can hear crashing, the vibrato thrum of lightsabers, shouting, screaming, but he can’t _see_ it. It twists and disconnects like a mirage on the heat waves.

Obi-Wan tries to focus, stilling himself and ignoring the fire trying to creep up his legs because it isn’t _real_, and casts out with his _intent_.

“Padawan.”

His master appears.

He looks different, with short hair and loose sleeves, the shape of him flickering uncertainty between the man Obi-Wan knows and this visage of the past.

Obi-Wan breathes in. “Please tell me you aren’t dying.” He blurts out.

They've only ever shared dreams when close at hand to each other - or in dire circumstances.

His master’s lips part, close. He frowns, and Obi-Wan feels his jaw drop a little in indignation, and he wants to shake the man.

“I’d better not be.” His master finally comments.

“You’re supposed to be on _Alderaan_.” Obi-Wan crosses his arms. “You’re supposed to be _safe_.”

“We did not make it to Alderaan. We’ve crashed somewhere in what I believe to be Celedean Ice Belt and are presently awaiting rescue. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” His master replies.

“Are you hurt?”

“Nothing major, though several of the crew are in dire condition.” His master reports, stroking his beard. “I believe our ship was sabotaged.”

“The Sith?”

“Perhaps.” His master shrugs. “But perhaps not. Bail is the consort and future husband of the Queen of Alderaan. There are those who would take drastic measures to see that he never make it to his wedding.”

“Oh _ka’re_ – what can I do?” Obi-Wan curses, glowering off to one side. His master has the worst luck, and once again, he and Obi-Wan are apart when it strikes ill. 

“Contact Queen Breha?” His master suggests with another shrug. “There is little _to_ be done, though you may help her narrow the search for us. Let her know that Bail is alive and well. We’ve set up the emergency beacon, though its signal may be intermittent given the ice fields around our crash site.”

“I can do that.” Obi-Wan nods, then hesitates. “I think.” He’s not exactly certain how he’s going to contact Queen Breha directly, but he can probably appeal to Master Windu for assistance.

Obi-Wan frowns, thinking that over. If he appeals to Master Windu for assistance, questions are going to be asked. This isn’t exactly his master’s fault, but no one is going to be pleased that once again he has gone off on his own and once again he has landed in less than ideal circumstances.

Especially Knight Gallia, after that argument about his master being allowed to go alone.

Still, their safety came first.

As if reading his thoughts, his master also winces slightly.

“I should wake up.” His master comments. “I’m monitoring several healing trances, and it’s always tricky with non-sensitives.”

“May the Force be with you all, Master.” Obi-Wan says.

Master Ben smiles, reaching out to tug on his padawan braid.

Before he can make contact, they both wake up.

Obi-Wan flinches awake, as he usually does from their shared dreams, and runs a hand up through his hair. He licks his lips, still tasting of mineral water from the grotto, and doesn’t even have to look at the time to know he’s slept less than four hours.

“Well, fuck.” He huffs, and gets up.

He has work to do.

~*~

Lachas stands just at the edge of the lounge, next to the service passage to the kitchen, waiting for the Senator and his guest to arrive and settle in. He bites into a tart, and to his dismay finds it far more _sweet_ than _tart_, and he has half a mind to have words with the replacement chef, because surely Senator Organa doesn’t have this kind of sweet tooth.

He rubs the crumbs off his lip with a thumb, unhappy, and hears an amused snort.

“That face you make just _kills_ me.”

Lachas turns, frowning, to find the chef in question sitting at the lounge table, leaning into the cushioned booth.

“What are you doing there?” Lachas inquires sharply, because that was far out of protocol to be sitting in the senators lounge when he should be working-

That smile; sheepish and disarmingly sweet – he’s seen that smile before. Just on a different face.

“_You_.” Lachas accuses, striding forward and then stopping short. He scans his surroundings, but the lounge is flawless.

_When did I fall asleep?_

_How did I not notice_?

The floor shudders, as the memory that had been slipped around to frame this dream resurfaces, and he remembers the crash. The violent shuddering, the flashing lights, the explosions-

“Easy.” Third Brother is suddenly in front of him, green and grey striped eyes swirling, almost hypnotic. He lifts his arms as if to grab his shoulders and ground him, but stops before he actually touches Lachas, which the alderaani spy appreciates. He’s never much liked other people touching him. “Don’t focus on that. That is over, and we survived.”

“We did?”

“We did.”

There is a tension inside his head, and this is why Lachas hates jedi tricks. They confuse you, they call your senses into doubt, and for a spy, for a spy that is dangerous. That can be deadly. Getting too deep into their lies is bad enough – not being sure whether or not they _are_ lying – that’s worse. And jedi tricks muddle things like that.

And that, Lachas cannot afford.

“We survived.” Lachas repeats for himself, putting things into order. He strains against the suggestion of the dream, and the hypnotic, if soothing effect of the Jedi Shadow’s swirling grey-green eyes, and puts things in order. The crash. The cold. The rescue. The chemical ice. Who died. Who lived.

The lounge fragments and fades around them, and Lachas draws on a different framework, lest the dream fall apart completely. The tension in his head eases, and the wavering white around them resolves into snow. Not the deadly cold outside their crash, but the first snowfall in the capitol of Alderaan, soft and dazzling as it blankets the royal park, steam rising from heated fountains, berries and frost flowers breaking through in the odd flash of green and red and morning blue. Lachas, like most of his people, loved early snowfall, when not everything had yet fallen in autumn, and two glories of the seasons collided.

The Shadow looks around with interest.

“Is that what you really look like, then?” Lachas inquires, peering at the Jedi sternly.

Third Brother smirks. “For now.”

“We told you we didn’t want to join our investigations. Which I am no longer a part of.” Lachas adds, somewhat accusatorily.

“I apologize for that.” The other spy says with a flash of a grimace. “But I was not actually here on that account. We _are_ interested in how your investigation came about, and in Alderaan’s interests in what is happening around the Jedi in the Senate, but I am also here on account of Naasade. No Jedi are supposed to travel alone anymore. That I could multitask these two assignments was merely…convenient.”

“You’re kidding.” Lachas snorts, and then takes a second look at his face. “You’re not kidding.” He grumbles, looking up at the memory of a cheery blue and white sky. He takes in a breath and sighs, looking back to the spy. “What do you know?”

“Nothing.” Third Brother admits. Lachas glowers at him. “Honestly, this – whatever _this_ was, we _didn’t know_.”

Lachas deflates a little, feeling defeated, feeling a little useless. Mostly, feeling frustrated. “Neither did I.” He admits. “But what do you suspect?” He inquires.

“Sabotage.” Third Brother says. Lachas nods in agreement.

“The question is who.” Third Brother states.

“And how.” Lachas adds, fretting and sure he _missed_ something, He must have, to lead to this, and the guilt bites at his thoughts, clouding his head. “I oversaw the security for this myself. The vessel was clean. The crew was clean. The only hiccup was _you_.”

“I did not sabotage a ship I was flying on.” Third Brother huffs, half amused. “If that was an accusation.”

“It wasn’t.” Lachas states flatly.

Third Brother lifts a brow, curious.

“Naasade.” Lachas states irritably. “If you had been the enemy, perhaps you would have slipped past me, but I don’t believe you would slip so easily past him.”

“Because he’s a former shadow?” Third Brother inquires, half-rhetorical, and then studies Lachas’s face, and loses the rhetorical. “You honestly believe he _would_ know. Jedi aren’t omnipotent, you know. And he’s only a former Shadow, if that.”

Lachas bites down on the questionable ‘_If_?’ that tips his tongue, and Third Brother keeps on studying him.

Something dawns across the other mans face. “That’s not it at all, is it?” He asks, disbelief coloring his tone. “He _did_ make me, by the way. I wasn’t sure at first, but I do believe he knows.”

“As do I, though I think he enjoys my uncertainty a tad too much.” Lachas says dryly.

Another rueful smile. “I got that feeling too.” He says. “Though whether he knows or does not know – kindly keep him _out_ of our… other business.”

“I wasn't planning on involving him.” Lachas mutters. “I have _orders_ not to, in fact.”

Third Brother twitches a brow and a lip, but doesn’t ask. He’s a spy himself, he knows where the boundaries need to be. “So what threats do you have?” He inquires instead. “Any possible suspects?”

Lachas gives the other spy a stressed, flat look. “On who might attempt to assassinate the consort of the Queen of Alderaan?” He drawls indignantly.

Lachas Bey has nothing _but_ suspects.


	18. Chapter 18

Mace doesn’t have to be truly awake to know that his door chime is ringing well before the morning bell. He drags a hand over his face, contemplates letting himself drift back into real sleep rather than towards the insistence of awakedness, and sighs.

It doesn’t take much of an effort to recognize that’s it’s Padawan Kenobi waiting at his door, a small floodlight of _persistence-manic wakefulness- hesitation_ in the Force.

Mace plants his feet of the floor and quickly dons a shirt and trousers, not bothering with the tunic, tabards and belts just yet. Patience may be a virtue, but he’d rather not leave the padawan standing in the hall.

He opens his door blinks down at the teenager.

“Master Windu, good morning.” The boy bows polightly.

“It’s not yet morning, Padawan Kenobi.” Mace replies, sounding like a crechemaster. That was exactly what his clan master always told restless initiates who tried to get up before the bell.

Judging by the quirk on the boy’s lips, he’s equally familiar with the refrain.

“My apologies.” Kenobi says, running a hand through his hair, which is sticking up at odd angles, spiky and disorderly. “I was hoping to ask for your assistance in a… matter.” The padawan frown, as if he’s not quite certain of his phrasing.

Mace grunts and steps aside, inviting him in. “What sort of matter?” He inquires, leading the boy into his living area and heading straight for his kitchen. He needs caf.

“I need to get in touch with Queen Breha of Alderaan. Directly, if possible, but I don’t have the appropriate comm-line to do so.” Padawan Kenobi states.

Mace pauses, hands on the brewer, and glances at the boy.

He thinks about that statement for a moment, and all that could possibly be implied, closes his eyes, and groans.

“I take it you are coming to me because this is something you cannot do through _your_ master. Who is supposed to _be_ on Alderaan. _In_ Queen Breha’s company.” Mace says flatly. It’s not even a question.

The Padawan just gives him a tired, rueful smile.

~*~

Breha is pacing the edge of her desk, and frustrating poor Sojia, who is attempting to finish putting pins in Breha’s hair.

On display above her desk are all the current threats deemed valid that the Royal Service had been investigating. Aggravatingly, there were more than a hundred, and many of them were pending verification, the information more hearsay than substantial. Some were old, longstanding, some were new, others rose and fell with the political tides, a few were outliers, and could just as easily be nothing as they could be _something_.

She was frustrated.

Her spies were frustrated.

They needed more information. They needed something to help them narrow down the investigation. Was the ship attacked? Was Bail kidnapped? Was this merely some accident? Was it politics? Extortion? Was it to do with their impending engagement? Or their investigation in the Senate? Or their interests elsewhere? Alderaan was a beacon of the core, but they still had their enemies, enemies who would take any opportunity they could to weaken Alderaan’s power, to weaken Breha, if they could.

“My Lady, please sit.” Sojia pleaded. “The braids will come undone if you do not let me finish.”

Breha pauses, taking a deep breath, and nods, moving gracefully back into her seat with a sweep of skirts. She had a headache from the headdress she had been wearing this morning, and she did not have time for Sojia to have to redo her hair a third time.

Breha had spent the morning in parliament, making herself available to her court and providing direction on disputed matters of governance between various ministers and governors. She’d mediating a few petty squabbles that amused her more than anything, and shut down a few that did not amuse. Old Houses or not, Breha would not tolerate politics coming before the people of Alderaan, nor for those who had power to use it poorly. She’d offended them, she was sure, in a way she would not have usually, but her patience was thin, and the veil over their subtle insults as regards to her present situation even thinner.

Usually, she moved slowly, quietly, calmly – meltwater wearing down mountains – but perhaps it would do them well to remember that their queen was not so soft at her source. She was a glacier too. The meltwater of her manners may soothe, but if she saw fit, she could and would simply grind them under her will as well.

Her secured comm beeped.

“_My Lady, a call from Coruscant_.” One of her communications officers reported through the link. “_Master Windu, of the Jedi Temple.”_

“I’ll receive him.” Breha acknowledges, wondering – hoping- if perhaps the Temple may have some news for her. The Jedi had their ways, after all, and Ben had been with Bail.

“_Very well, ma’am_.” The officer acknowledges, and a moment later the holo blinks into existence, revealing a bald man perhaps her own age, with a stern brow and a soft mouth pressed into a solemn line. Even through holo-comm, Jedi seemed to possess and presence of something…more, than just what one could see.

“Master Windu.” Breha inclines her chin just a fingers’ width out of respect.

“_Queen Breha Antilles of Alderaan_.” He bows humbly. “_My apologies if I have disturbed you_.”

“Not at all, Master Windu. You’re timing is actually fortuitous, as the Queen is presently between engagements.” Breha says politely, refusing to twitch when Sojia slides another pin into place, accidentally scraping her skull. A light touch presses against her shoulder - a silent apology. “What business brings a Jedi Master to call upon Alderaan?”

Something around his eyes pinches - though she can’t determine if it’s stress, or a grimace, or an apology.

“_If you are willing to permit, Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi wishes to speak with you_.” The Jedi Master reports.

Breha blinks lightly, feeling something curl in her chest, but gives nothing away on her face. Breha may be eager to speak with the boy, and feel a pang that he is as much bereft in this situation as she is, but a Queen cannot be so familiar, and not with a mere Jedi-in-Training.

“Padawan Kenobi?” She repeats lightly. “That is…” For a moment, her mind truly does blank as to his form of address, and Breha will scold herself for it later. “Master Naasade’s boy?”

Master Windu gives visible pause, his brow pinching lightly. “_His _student.” He corrects curtly.

_Jedi don’t have children_. Breha reminds herself sharply and sternly. That had been terribly sloppy of her, stressed or not, and regardless of her suspicions. Still, at least she had said ‘boy’ and not ‘son’. As errors go, it’s mild, and easily mistaken as a confusion of culture, or a mere colloquial tic. Still… Breha should be more careful than that. Must be.

“I will receive him.” Breha says, glossing over the slip knowing that if she does, he likely will as well.

Master Windu nods, bowing again, and is shortly replaced in the feed by Padawan Kenobi.

“_Queen Antilles_.” He murmurs, tipping his head and lifting his palms, and Breha smiles at the Alderaani courtesy he displays.

“Breha, please. May I address you as Obi-Wan?” She inquires, taking in the boy before her. The scar is more detailed on a private call than it is in the glimpses she receives through Bail’s office, broken lines trailing up the one cheek, cutting through a dimple there. His eyes are also sharper, keener, and so very much like Ben’s.

His smile, when it comes, however, if far lighter and sweeter than his father’s. It’s almost a blush as he nods.

“_I’m afraid if you are trying to reach your master, I do not have good news for you, Obi-Wan_.” She says solemly.

“_Oh, I’m aware, Queen Breha_.” He says forwardly, though she smiles a little that he can’t quite drop her title. She lifts a brow, and he takes a sigh, meeting her gaze with a knowing, somewhat exasperated look. “_I received a message from my master_.” He explains, and Breha leans forward, intrigued, and Sojia sighs for having to tug at her hair. “_He believes their vessel crashed in the Celedean Ice Belt. Senator Organa is alive and well, though several of the crew are critically injured._”

“Crashed?” Breha inquires.

“_He told me they suspect it was sabotage_.” The padawan reports.

“Can you trace his location?” Breha asks hopefully. The boy grimaces.

“_It wasn’t…exactly that kind of call_.” He says hesitantly. “_I have a… strong connection with my master in the Force. We can, in certain circumstances, communicate that way_.”

_A strong connection_, Breha thinks wryly. How the two of them weren’t caught, she has no idea.

“The Celedean Ice Belt, then?” Breha remarks. “That’s not a particularly small search parameter_._”

“_No_.” He agrees. “_But they have deployed an emergency beacon. The signal may be weak or intermittent, given the ice fields, but it is active. I also think…”_ He hesitates, trailing off – perhaps recognizing that he should be less free-speaking with a royal monarch, an invitation to her engagement or not. They’ve never formally even met before.

“Obi-Wan?” She prompts warmly. The boy blinks a little, looking embarrassed by her regard, and she thinks he is rather adorable. Quite contrary to the stiff reputation of most jedi.

“_I doubt they are that far off course. If they strayed from their hyperlane, I suspect they strayed only enough to strike to ice fields. Anything more drastic than that would have been noticed_.”

Breha considers that. His reasoning is sound. She trusted her people, and the Jedi too. Someone would have noticed.

“_Sabotage_.” She repeats. The padawan nods, one hand coming up to rub at his jaw. “_Did he say anything more? Was it mechanical failure? A computer virus_?”

The methods might tell her more about the means by which this was accomplished, and the means would tell her more about the perpetrator.

“_He didn’t say, I’m sorry_.” Obi-Wan replies. Breha sighs softly, nodding.

“He said Bail was well?” Breha repeats, holding on to those words, and that promise. “What about Ben? Is he alright?”

“_Probably not_.” The boy snorts, and his exasperation has returned. “_This is exactly the kind of trouble my Master always lands in. But he tends to land on his feet, with his lightsaber in hand, so I’m not terribly worried. They’ll look out for each other.” _He says with certainty, and Breha admired him in that moment. It’s not bravado or arrogance or false hope – what one might expect of a young man his age - he is _truly_ certain, and in that certainty there is power.

Breha draws back a little, pulling on her composure as she studies him. “Obi-Wan, if my future husband and your master are to be the good friends I can tell they will be, I need to know something quite important;” Breha states evenly, eyes alight on the boy, whose expression smoothes out implacably, save for a keen shine to his eyes.

She has to bite her cheek.

“Exactly how often does he tend to land in trouble?” She inquires formidably.

Padawan Kenobi lifts a brow just a hint, and then leans in a little, just as formidable in countanence.

“_Queen Breha_,” He states quietly, coolly. “_I’d rather like to ask you the same question in regards to that future husband of yours_.”

Breha pays him the great privilege of breaking first, and smiling, well amused. Relief is brimming in her chest at the news he has brought, and she has a powerful certainty of her own;

She and he, too, are going to be such very good friends.


	19. Chapter 19

Master Mierme Unill of the Jedi Temple of Corellia was a tall, green skinned Kalleran with webbed ears and a webbed vestigial dorsal, and lobes that framed her neck which were often mistaken for a type of lekku, but in fact served a much different purpose for her species. At nearly seven feet, she cut a formidable figure, which is what had initially endeared the Kaleesh to her.

As a member of the Corellian Council, she was experienced and wise, but it was her unflappable attitude that had earned her her seat, and her adaptability that had elected her as the Corellian representative for this congregation.

Given her quick initiative in regards to recent changes, she had been glad to take it, and learn more of just what, exactly, was happing inside the Coruscant Temple, which was a topic of much debate between the lesser councils. Much seemed to be brewing within those somber halls which for decades now had seemed so rigidly stagnant.

Thus far, the High Council had been frustratingly vague and aloof. There was the Kenobi Report, and the Skywalker Initiative, and they were more than happy to address and debate those documents, as well as the financial disagreements, but those were not, Mierme believed, the heart of the real issue. They were the lancing of a wound – but not its cause.

Taria and Rudaban had had better luck, rooting out rumor and making quick and many introductions – Taria was charming and inquisitive, and Rudaban gave her an easy alibi for any curiosity.

Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi was a popular topic, the apparent rising star of his generation. As was Shmi Skywalker, a former slave, a mother, and a student with the kind of honed talent that made seasoned knight envious. But more than her talent was her pragmatic wisdom, and her simple but unyielding convictions which tolerated much but forgave very little.

But there were other rumors too – a Fallen padawan, still training under his master. A tentative breaching of the enmity between the Jedi Order and Mandalore, which had been bitter enemies for centuries. Rising conflict between the Jedi and the Trade Federation.

And then there were things that were less than rumors; that something was _wrong_, in the Senate. That there was a _threat_ to be quietly prepared for. That the dimishment of the Jedi had little to do with accident and much to do with _malice_.

And a name, threaded through all of it; Jedi Master Ben Naasade.

“_But what’s funny_,” Taria had murmured, making her report. “_is who _won’t_ talk about him.”_

There was plenty his fellow Jedi had to say about the in absentia former Shadow. Many remarked on his power and his battle prowess. Some remarked on his teaching. Others remarked on his faults, and the rumors of darkness. A few hesitantly made comment on his medical fitness and mental state – a TSR case, apparently. There was even an open challenge against the man, for custody – temporary – of his padawan. Which, from what they could discern, had only been won twice. Out of more than a hundred bouts.

Every Jedi in the Coruscant Temple had their opinion of him, it seems.

With the stark exclusion of the Jedi High Council, who refused to remark upon him at all, and answered no queries, no matter how innocent.

Mierme could understand – the man was, according to most accounts, a former Shadow. His work was likely classified to the highest levels – if not for the timing.

Because of all of this that has led to them being here, now, about to make the greatest changes to the Jedi Order since the Ruusan Reformation, _none_ _of it_ predated his quiet but abrupt re-emergence at the Temple.

From the outside it wouldn’t be noticed – it was never his name at the forefront. It was Padawan Kenobi, or Master Ti, or Padawan Skywalker, or Knight Gallia, or the Initiates Council, or the High Council, or the Council of Reparations, as if Master Naasade were merely a bystander to an unaffiliated chain of events.

But too much coincidence, too much influence, Mierme thinks, around a man whom, from all accounts, has few connections and fewer friends.

And was conveniently absent.

Mierme looks around the gathering congregation wondering _why_, at this precipice, he was so noticeably absent.

She catches Taria and Rudaban slinking in from a side entrance and laces her heavy, three-fingered hands together. She doesn’t know quite what brand of mischief they got up to last night, but she has no doubts that there was, in fact, mischief. And judging by a few guilty-embarrassed looks being passed around the other representative padawans, she had no doubts that they had company for it as well.

_So long as I am not hearing of it officially_, Mierme thinks wryly, _I am not hearing of it at all_.

She gives her padawans pointed looks regardless. Rudaban at least has the grace to seem sheepish. Taria just lifts her brows in a patented look of neutral curiosity that allows her to get away with far more than any pretense of innocence ever did.

Mierme rumbles low in her throat, a warble just below a hiss, and Master Hetankuma, a rishi from the Jedi Sect on Jedha, ruffles his feathers in quiet alarm – a primal response to such a reptilian sound.

“Apologies.” Mierme mutters, not having noticed him settling in next to her.

“Dare I inquire?” The older Master preens his feathers down, beak clacking sharply as he speaks, looking down at her for all that he was the shorter of them.

“Padawans.” Mierme replies in explanation.

He chitters, a sound just too windy to be a snort. “The reason I gave up the practice of teaching years ago. Far too much stress – I was tired of molting.”

“Perhaps then it is fortunate I am already bald.” Mierme replies.

Master Hetankuma clucks in low humor, head tilted just so to study her striped form. “Perhaps so. Though do they not put off your color?”

“I suppose every species must suffer in some way for the rambunctious nature of their young.” She replies.

“Very true, is that.” Master Yaddle remarks, and Mierme startles for a moment, not having noticed the very small Jedi shuffling underfoot.

“I believe we are all young in the face of your many years, Master Yaddle.” Master Hetankuma bows, his crest of feathers rising briefly as he does.

“Hm, yes.” She nods.

“Though certainly less rambunctious.” Mierme comments.

“Agree with that, I cannot.” Yaddle remarks, and continues on her way.

~*~

“You should go back to sleep.” Bail remarks quietly, leaning against the wall where he has been directed to stay - away from those contaminated with whatever had been in the ice. The back-up lights cast the lounge cabin in shades of yellow that are clarifying, yet not particularly bright.

The contaminated clothes had been shoved into the airlock, but a taint of the chemicals remained in the air, scratching at their lungs. Those who had been outside had developed a hoarse cough, and Bail felt helpless and _angry_ that all he could do was sit aside and stay safe.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep in the first place.” Ben remarks, a chipper in self-depreciative murmur. “I need to keep an eye on our patients. Have you managed any sleep?” He inquires in turn.

“No.” Bail replies honestly. Between the way his lungs ache when he breathes in too deeply, and the uncomfortable cloy of false humidity in the air, the creaking of the temperature differences in the bulkheads, and the coughing, and the leaden worry in his chest, he get’s right on the precipice of sleep and then jolts back to alertness in a panic. He’s afraid the brush of cold against his side means the heat generator has failed, or the creaking in the durasteel is something about to give way, or that the pained wheezing is someone else he is about to lose.

Bail has been in refugee camps, volunteered in field hospitals on worlds in despair. He knows the sour smell of fear and stress in close quarters, knows the metallic-salt taste on his tongue was from the blood drying and evaporating off the floor. Knows the chattering teeth of a fever chill, and the low, unconscious moan of the second cook in a pain he can’t quite wake up well enough to really feel.

He has dealt with each and every one of these things before.

It’s just never been… at home. It’s never been _his_ people.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He was supposed to be with Breha.

“Do you want me to help you? To sleep?” Ben offers, and Bail smiles faintly.

“No.” He replies. Most everyone else is asleep, though Adjunct Bey naps fitfully, eyes snapping open every so often, and Officer Dorias, his staff medic, only closes his eyes a few minutes at a time, hovering in between the injured personnel, doing what he can with what little they have and relying gratefully on the Jedi Master to cover for what he can’t. He is injured himself – a broken arm, tidily splinted and bound to his chest, but it doesn’t slow him down much, though Bail can hear him reciting something to himself every time he jostles it, in increasingly dark and forbidding tones.

“Well, if you’re not going to sleep and I am not supposed to, I suppose you’ll simply have to distract me, Senator.”

“Oh?” Bail lifts a brow, as Naasade shifts to face him more directly, carefully fussing at the bandages on his skin he wasn’t supposed to fuss with. Officer Dorian glares at him in warning, and the Jedi primly removes his hands from their offense.

“If you would be so ki-chg.” Naasade coughs, and then coughs more raggedly, fists clenching until he wheezes his way back into even breathing. Bail holds his own breath, holds himself still – a habit from learning to control his temper in politics.

_Don’t breathe, don’t move. Wait. Think. Then act_.

“So kind as to oblige me.” Ben eventually finishes, in that same tone of courtesy bordering on flirtation.

Bail breathes in, breathes out, lets himself smile. “I can be obliging.” He remarks.

Ben smirks.

Bail feels the huff of a laugh puff at his throat, and thinks that Ben is doing a fine job of distracting Bail, the worry and frustration in his mind and weighing on his chest receding as he decides just how to amuse his friend.  
~*~

“- if we raise the age of acceptance to maturity-“

“Why?”

“That will not suit.”

Both Padawan Kenobi and Padawan Skywalker react to that, having been fidgeting each in their own way for the last several minutes as allocations and percentages and limits were proposed and dissected.

The Congregation pauses, attention turning to where the padawans had formed their own gallery, and the two Padawan’s in question glance at each other, expressions shifting minutely as they silently debated who would stand and speak.

_Naasade’s boy_. Mace feels his lips twitch slightly, but he can’t get the implicating phrase out his head. His first reaction had been quick disbelief – but then, _he_ knew the truth.

From the outside, however…

He could see where the suspicion might arise, that Ben Naasade and Obi-Wan Kenobi were father and son.

To be honest, he’s surprised it hasn’t come up before.

And kriff if it didn’t amuse the hell out of him, imaging Ben trying to talk his way around that one.

Padawan Kenobi settles back down, and, to Mace’s surprise, it is Padawan Skywalker who rises to stand and address them.

“Acknowledged to the floor, is Padawan Skywalker.” Master Yoda intones, eyes half lidded, ears perking up.

“If you would take an infant or an adult, what difference is there between taking an adult at maturity and an adult beyond their prime?” Padawan Skywalker says, voice low, eyes down, but both rising as she gathers herself. A demure woman, Mace thought, at first, of her. Meek and uncertain. He had doubted she would ever find a place among the Jedi, ever grow beyond her misfortune to be able to represent the Order or the Galactic Republic, to speak out, to defend others at the risk of her own life. He had thought, to his great shame, that regardless of the potential of her abilities, she would be forever crippled by the life that came before.

It was a thought Jedi often held, regarding those who came from other lives, found too late to be drawn into the fold.

That he and his peers had actually said as such, when Shaak Ti declared the woman her padawan… that caused him shame, and guilt, and…. On occasions such as this – mortification.

The only reason, he thinks, that Shaak Ti did not laugh in their faces for their prejudice and ignorance, was because she had been too angry, and far more dignified and disciplined on that day than any of them had been.

Shmi Skywalker made him deeply uncomfortable. For many reasons – some selfish, as she inspired that guilt and embarrassment, and some less so – her past marked her in ways she did not realize, that he did not realize, until moments or circumstances arose and that past was slapped back in their faces, and that…he did not deal well with that. With pity or horror.

But he was wise enough, at least, to recognize that his discomfort meant little. That there were lessons to be learned in it.

So she took the floor, and lifted her voice – a little nervous, perhaps, but resolved. Her presence, usually so tightly coiled as to be more mirage than anything else, spooled outward with her conviction, quiet, but vast – and he leaned forward and _listened_.

“The limits you impose – on yourselves, on us; those you see as outsiders – are they not arbitrary?” Skywalker questions. “What unbreachable distance is there between twenty and two-hundred? What can you instill in a child of two that you claim you cannot teach a man of twenty? What malleability does a youngling of two and ten have that a woman of two-thousand cannot fathom?” She looks to Master Fay, hovering in an archway, and the blonde elder smirks beautifully.

Mace glances at his fellow councilors, wondering if they are remembering too, Fay’s rueful admission: _And the learning, in truth, goes on forever_.

“I came late to this Order. Far too late, many of you would say. But I am not here as a tally on a page. I am here to be a Jedi. What right do you have to deny me my own self-discovery? You are not a business, or an army. _We_ are not. We are an Order – a _faith_. What right do you have to tell me that I am too old to _believe_?”

She pauses, looking around at them with her dark, sharp gaze that cuts to the quick, and Padawan Kenobi rises, stepping up beside her, with a brief touch to her elbow, telling her he is there, and she is not alone.

"I was supposed to be sent away." He tells the congregation - many of whom would _not_ have known this, and that shows in their quiet surprise. “I was thirteen – or nearly. My master chose me mere _hours_ before my departure for the Service Corps. _Hours_. As if half a day made all the difference in whether or not I could or would be a Jedi Knight. So what difference is it really? To say you can train someone at thirteen but not fifteen? At fifteen but not twenty? At twenty but not forty? This isn’t…this isn’t just about population.” He says, a swell of emotion compared to Shmi’s fluttering ebbs of nerves and resolution. “We lost _so much more_ than that, over the last thousand years. We lost much of not only what we are, but _who_ we are, as Jedi. Ensuring our survival is about more than just bringing our numbers back up – it’s about rebuilding our culture. Revitalizing what _makes_ us a source of stability and light in the Galaxy. You have to stop looking at numbers and trends and tweaking things as they are. Things cannot remain _as they are_.”

Kenobi looks to Skywalker, who nods and quietly clasps his hand in solidarity as they face the gathered Master’s and Archivists.

“We cannot save ourselves by half-measures.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: My breakfast this morning was half a chocolate bar and a chewable vitamin C and if that's not chaotic self-care I don't know what is.

“Quinlan, you are going to have to start showering in the salles before coming home.” Tholme calls, hearing the door swick open. He is _glad_, truly, that his padawan has found a constructive, positive devotion in the creche, whatever it was that Master Se had him doing, but the smears of paint, and flimsicrete, and glitter that he kept tracking in was becoming a bit much. The first came off the walls and counters and door-key easy enough, but the flimsicrete settled into a sludge in the bottom of their shower, and the glitter just _did not go away_. In fact, it seemed to propagate, appearing in stranger and stranger places. It appeared on their clean dishes. Tracked itself into Tholme’s room. Even their fresh laundry occasionally sparkled.

To say nothing of the fact that it didn’t appear to come out of Quinlan’s hair, either, no matter how many showers the padawan took.

“I am not Quinlan, but I suppose I could pass the message along.”

“Shmi.” Tholme starts, looking up from the astronavigation assignments he was grading. She pauses between the kitchen and the living area, a few shorter strands of hair falling loose from her neat bun, her padawan braid slipping between her tunic and shirt. She offers him a tired smile, and he can sense her relax as she looks at him.

Nervously, he realizes he has tensed up, and breathes quietly. She is relaxed, there is no reason he should not be relaxed.

“May I?” She lifts a hand towards the kitchen, where his scuffed clay kettle sits prominently on a shelf. Her voice is scratchy, almost hoarse.

“Of course.” Tholme replies, and he isn’t surprised at the state of her voice. He’d gone to observe the Congregation, as it was being called, between the classes he was teaching. From what he could tell, she had spent most of the day in overdrawn debate, tag-teaming her arguments with Padawan Kenobi, Master Ti, Master Fay, and, for at least part of the afternoon, with a Kalleran Master from Corellia, in regards to the matter of older Padawans and on even more radical topics, such as the suitability of older students raised outside the Temples. “There’s red honey in the other cabinet.” He offers. He and Quinlan both had a taste for green honey, but he knew Shmi and Padawan Kenobi preferred something a little less sharp, so he’d expanded his pantry stock. “And blue milk in the cooling unit.”

That, Tholme was still developing a taste for, and Quinlan had flatly rejected.

He realizes he’s just…_watching_ her, while she prepares tea, and reprimands himself, returning to the assignments he has yet to grade and knowing his attention is now half-hearted at best.

But after a minute, two, he settles, his focus to his task returning, and he almost forgets she’s there, a quiet presence in the background.

At least until she sets a mug of tea just beside his work, and slides easily into place next to him on the sofa, a sudden soft warmth and weight against his side, tucking her legs up – and he hadn’t noticed her trading her boots for slippers – her knees resting against his thigh, her shoulder brushing his arm. Her posture itself is always somewhat stern. She lowers her head, at times, but she rarely truly _hunches_, and her posture gives her a sense of poise that is somehow different than typical jedi discipline. Even sitting, her spine is straight, her shoulders square. She blows on her mug to cool it, and sips delicately, and Tholme finds a smile twisting at his lips.

She’s a small woman, he realizes, but he never really thinks of her as small, or delicate. Small and delicate implied…fragility, perhaps weakness, and Tholme couldn’t quite bring himself to associate such things with her.

She has a delicate chin, however, and that same snub nose as her son. Fine scars mar her face, a lacework of hardship from whipping sands, but her eyes are sharp and deep, her brows finely defined. He can’t always see her face – most don’t realize it, not in the moment, at least, but Shmi rarely lets anyone _see_ her face. See _her_.

The tea smells warm and spiced and thick with soothing honey. Tholme sets aside his datapad and retrieves the cup she made for him.

Creamy rich and more spice than sweet, somewhere between a red tea and a black tea, with something like cinnabark in it, and perhaps a touch of chocolate. And rum, if he’s not mistaken.

He mulls over his mug for a few minutes, letting the warmth soothe him, and smell, and the weight against his side.

A few minutes, just to realize he is…_content_.

Tholme lets himself settle back, and, without much thought, reaches over to fix her padawan braid, lightly pulling it out of the tuck of her clothes. She draws up a bit, her eyes having been closed softly, and meets his gaze, her hands still wrapped around her mug.

Tholme lets the braid slip through his fingers, retracting his hand and drawing away a little, feeling awkward, suddenly out-of-place.

She sighs softly, lowering her mug to rest against her knee, and simply…watches him, for a minute or so. There’s nothing reproachful in her gaze, nothing detrimental, but Tholme wonders what he is doing, at this moment. He is twice her age, scarred and more jaded than not, and she is…

It’s hard to describe what, exactly Shmi Skywalker is, but it’s something he feels less than worthy of. Something he shouldn’t be reaching for.

And as if just to contradict him, like she can pull the thoughts from his head just as easily as she can turn his suggestions into a debate, or compliments into a challenge, or disagreement into a compromise, and hellos into breathless staring, she reaches for him.

Her hand folds over his, still heat-warm from her mug. She turns his hand over, thumb tracing across palm, and tilts her head a little, a faint quirk around the edges of her mouth.

“Would you pull my hair down?” He can’t tell if she’s asking or offering. “My reward for my efforts of the day seems to be a headache.”

“I can imagine.” Tholme huffs lightly, though his throat seems to tighten around his voice. He certainly wouldn’t want to be faced with the prolonged and circuitous debates she has no doubt suffered, nor will suffer, as this Congregation continues. Tholme was an insular individual – hence his taking up the post of Watchman, where he was on his own ore often than not.

She squeezes his fingers briefly and then shifts on the sofa, turning and leaning more deeply against him, giving his easier access to her hair. His eyes trace the curve of her neck before he sets aside his mug and reaches up to draw out the carved wooden comb and pin holding the bun in place. He sets the pin aside, as her hair slides down in a twisted rope, slowly unwinding.

He takes a steadying breath and helps it along, freeing it with his fingers until it lies loose down her back. She hums a little, appreciative, as he pulls the strands through his fingers, soft and smooth against his hardened skin.

Tholme feels foolish – a grown man taken unsteady by something so…ordinary. But there’s a brimming in his chest, and he finds himself smiling as he goes ahead and draws the comb through her hair, careful not to catch her padawan braid up with the strands.

They are both just…quiet, and content.

~*~

_To burn a bridge seems_

_Foolish, when you are the one_

_Still standing on it_.

Alderaan held no planetary religion. Some still prayed to the ancestors, and Alderaan kept her folklore and myths alive and well, but Alderaan was many peoples now, and they all brought their own traditions and gods with them, weaving into the tapestry that made up her people, adding new colors and patterns, though the grand theme of the work remained the same.

But the Forest of Memory was as close to sacred and holy as anything could be.

Entombment fell out of favor generations ago, and all but some of the oldest cemetaries had been reshaped, bodies consigned to ashes, and the ashes laid into the soil to bring new life, new growth, to revitalize old lands. Forests grew now where stone had once choked out seeking roots, tall, sweeping pines and oaks, gentle willows and trailing song trees, lilacs and alder-roses. And amidst them where the pillars, talls piles of shining granisteel, engraved with all the ancestors anyone ever knew of, embedded with holorecords - snippets of voices, of images, that could be activated with a touch, or by calling a name, flickering over the surfaces of the monuments.

It was an engagement tradition for the couple to walk each other down the lines of their ancestry. For the engagement of a monarch, it was more than that. Her ancestry was no longer just Antilles. Her ancestry was Alderaan itself.

It would be, of course, unfeasible for the royal couple to visit every monument on the planet, but the Forest of Memory had been the resting place of every Royal House of Alderaan on record, and that was where their walk was to be made. It took a day to cross, and was often made into a solemn parade, one for remembrance and contemplation. Like most royal activities – it was a public affair.

_To burn a bridge seems_

_Foolish, when you are the one_

_Still standing on it_ _._

Attendants where in and out, unobtrusive and almost indistinguishable in their uniforms and veils. One slipped away, another took their place, ever on hand. Whispers abounded at Bail’s absence. Two days gone and Breha had had to make a public statement. Her people were understanding, of course – outraged, some of them. That anyone would dare attack _their_ Senator, _their_ Queen’s future husband. Others were ambivalent; some factions even pleased – Bail’s absence as her suitor presented opportunities, after all.

Not that she would entertain them.

Now or _ever_.

Breha has only been to the Forest twice, but it remains one of her favorite places, in spite of all the sorrow death implies. Tracing the names, watching the memories of flash and flicker by – an old woman laughing, a young man stuttering through a speech, someone singing, children running in circles, clinging tightly to each others hands. Weddings, funerals, small, inconsequential moments – these remain. They are just glimpses, glimpses, into lives she doesn’t know, lives a hundred years past – a thousand. Lives past that she could have known, but didn’t, strangers of her own time. They make her curious and wistful and wise.

Sometimes, glimpses are all that remain.

Sometimes that’s all you get, just an echo reaching out of your own life, carried on by your House, by your Lineage.

The House of Antilles was a mountain. It would never be forgotten, could not be. Royalty for generations, few of them idle in their accomplishments. The House was solid, and strong, with more than a dozen branches sweeping out, taking root, flourishing, ensuring the mountain grew ever stronger.

House Organa, in comparison, was a solitary pillar, a single durasteel line holding firm against the unyielding reel of time.

Bail’s father stands in Bail’s place for this rite, and Breha watches him, as her attendant leans in to whisper in her ear. Marlan Organa is tall, broad-shouldered, like Bail. The same faint amusement is stitched into the lines of his face, but Bail’s looks take after his mother.

_To burn a bridge seems_

_Foolish, when you are the one_

_Still standing on it._

He and Bail are all that is left of the Lineage and the House Organa, since Bail’s mother had returned to her own House.

Him, and Bail, and Breha, soon to be.

Breha catches her attendant by the wrist, when they turn to slip away.

They lock dark-eyed gazes, and Breha’s flickers over her family, gathered around, telling stories, evoking memories out of the monuments around them, as they were meant to.

Her attendant gives a slight shake of their head, and then turns their wrist to grasp Breha’s.

_We don’t know_, that head-shake says. _Yet_, that grip implies.

But perhaps they did not need to. That whisper was enough.

_My own House_, Breha thinks coldly, feeling that coldness seep through her – not a clammy thing, clinging and cringing, not a dread, but an icy promise. _The threat came from within my own House._

“Bre! Bre, are you listening?”

_House Antilles_.


	21. Chapter 21

“Don’t sit up.”

“It’s fine.”

“You were told not to sit up.” Lachas snaps quietly, glowering at the noorian – or, _was_ he even really noorian? Lachas didn’t know. He looked it, certainly, but then… There were ways. Looks were no guarantee of identity.

And who knew what methods the jedi might have that others did not.

Besides, Third Brother had all but confirmed that this was not a face Lachas could expect to recognize in the future, so…

The Jedi Shadow grunts, trying to sit up, lips pressed into a thin line, face losing color as his displaced ribs protested.

“Don’t sit up!” Officer Dorias barks, currently helping a heavily concussed Adjunct Espana sip a broth made from powdered rations.

Letting out an indignant huff that comes out a lot more like a thready wheeze, the Jedi Shadow falls back against the makeshift cushion.

He tenses, and Lachas frowns, concerned, but the other spy’s gaze darts towards Master Naasade, whom, in the midst of helping Senator Organa prep rations – well, sitting nearby and offering witty company while Senator Organa prepares rations, as he is the only one both contamination and injury free – has turned to pin the ‘chef’ with a sharp look and a raised brow.

It’s a scolding if Lachas ever saw one. Third Brother grumbles, irritable, but bodily forces himself to relax.

“What was that?” Lachas inquires in a barest whisper.

“I could make myself better.” Third Brother mutters, so quietly Lachas isn’t sure if it’s actually said or said inside his head. “Or something equivalent to better.”

“Heal yourself?” Lachas doesn’t let surprise show on his face, doesn’t let his voice rise.

“More or less.” The jedi replies, and Lachas has a feeling, going by the quirk on the edge of the noorian’s lips, that ‘_or less’_ is the key part of that reply. “That was a warning.”

“Not to?”

“That others are watching.”

Lachas flexes his hands carefully, the skin still blistering, and winces. “Me?” He huffs. “But I _know_.”

“I don’t think he’s realized that.” Third Brother replies. “He’s not a telepath. I don’t think. So, you. And the others.” He pants out his replies on shaky exhales, and Lachas knows what’s about to happen before it does, and braces himself.

The fit of coughing is brutal, interspersed with squeaky, sharp keens of pain, and Lachas can’t _do_ anything about it. Officer Dorias has given him something to help with the pain, but it’s mild. The heavy stuff is reserved for those in far worse condition. Naasade is helping, but the man slept perhaps an hour or two in all of the last two days, and Lachas can see him flagging. He doesn’t know much of how the Force works, how it affects those who use it, but he imagines that, like almost any other kind of effort, it’s fatiguing. The cinnoman-haired Jedi is starting to look sickly, under the chemical lesions that reddened his skin.

Eventually, the coughing tapers off into harsh wheezes, and then into forcibly calm breathing that gurgles a little in the Jedi’s raw throat. Spittle stains his lips, tinted red, and Lachas offers the other spy sips of water from a straw. Whatever they had breathed in outside, it was doing them no favors, not to mention the frost-bite.

Lachas really, really hoped that rescue came soon.

~*~

“You can’t both gut the corps of personnel and demand more of us.” Agricorps Chairman Thena, a short, robust sullust woman with large black eyes says forcibly, her voice almost bigger than her body.

“As branches of the Jedi Order, we have first rights to the corps provi-“

“That is not the point.” ExploraCorps Chairman Merk Concazzi, a correllian man with a ruddy complexion and a short bristle of peppered black hair, replies earnestly. “We are all Temple-raised or tutored, most of us in the Corps. We understand our dues to the Order, and we support this endeavor fully. Trust me, if I could have gone back to be a real Jedi, I would have in a heartbeat. However, Chairman Thena’s point stands. We can’t do the work you’re asking to do if you’re taking from us the people we need to get it done. The Corellian Temple stripped us bare when they took back all those promising young pilots and engineers. Now, ExploraCorps is headquartered practically next door to that Temple, so it’s not like they went very far, but all our outside services, all those external projects and contracts? We’re limping and scraping along to meet those obligations, some of which have _already_ fallen through, even with a good portion of those personnel being lent back to us as needed by the Temple.”

“So perhaps putting a cap on the age of those who can be taken as students _would_ be reasonable. If only to ensure-“

“Why do we have to choose?” Iara mutters quietly, the typically cheery zabraks tone surprisingly bitter. Obi-Wan glances at her over Tsui’s head, and she flushes.

“How do you mean?” Obi-Wan whispers, leaning behind Tsui, who glances at them both before politely leaning forward a little.

“I want to be a jedi. A real jedi.” She tells him, yearning thick in her voice. “And I’m so grateful that Padawan Skywalker made this possible, that Master Yoda gave me a chance, but…” She worries her lip, gaze on the floor, resonating _shame-confusion-frustration_. “I miss it, sometimes. The Agricorps. Farming, putting all my effort into living things, feeling them grow. I miss the supply runs too. Meeting new people. Helping them. Revitalizing dying worlds…stabilizing decaying ecosystems. It was _good_ work. A good calling.”

Obi-Wan reaches out, because he can’t not reach out, trying to soothe that snarl of hurt in the Force, and lays a hand against her arm. Despite his own experiences – biases, really – he knew she was right. The Service Corps where an extension of the Order, and they did good work. Needed work, providing vital support to worlds and systems that otherwise may not be able to get it.

And, looking at he Congregation assembled around him, he realized they were more vital then ever, for the galaxy and for the Jedi Order itself.

She smiles for the comfort of his touch, but’s it’s wan compared to her usual look.

_A real Jedi_.

Obi-Wan’s brain sticks there. Those were the words on her lips. Exactly as they had been on Chairman Concazzi’s.

_Why do we have to choose_?

Puzzle pieces scatter in his head, thoughts trying to form and colliding instead.

There is a seal on his master’s IdentPass, one that declares him a Jedi Master and Representative of the Diplomatic Offices of the Galactic Republic. The seal you earn when you take on the title of a Jedi Knight, the rank and designation essentially one and the same.

It’s what separated a Jedi Knight from, well…

_But what if_…

“Oh.”

But what if they separated being a _Jedi Knight_ from being a _Representative of the Diplomatic Offices of the Galactic Republic_?

Shmi had said it, hadn’t she? The Jedi are an Order, a _faith_. It wasn’t just a title, a job, but a belief, a way of life.

What made Iara’s purpose before any less true to the Jedi calling than the work she would do as a… _real_ Knight?

“_Obi-Wan_.” Siri, sitting on his other side, pinches his arm, tone both wary and warning, full of expectation after having caught that small, emphatic exhalation.

Obi-Wan flinches, shooting her a dirty look, and she rolls her eyes as he gets to his feet. “Masters?” He steps forward.

“Oh no.” Iara breathes quietly, embarrassed. Obi-Wan shoots her a reassuring look, and when he glances back towards the Congregation, Master Windu has his fingertips pressed to his temples, as if staving off a headache. He gives Obi-Wan a hopeful look, and Obi-Wan tries not to grimace. He has no illusions about improving the Master’s condition with what he is about to say, to suggest.

Master Windu catches his look, and wilts a little.

“Speak, Padawan Kenobi.” He sighs.

Honestly, he treats Obi-Wan as if Obi-Wan is enjoying this any better.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Sorry about the slow/short(er) updates everyone. I'm working 12-15 hour days right now and i'm napping on my breaks when usually i'm writing, so...  
Yeah.

“As progressive as these developments may necessitate us to be, that padawan is perhaps too bold.” Master Savigo mutters, as the Congregation mills out of the Dawn Atrium. “Someone should instill in him a bit more discipline.”

“You haven’t met his master.” Mace retorts, and finds himself speaking in turn with Master Koon and Knight Gallia in the boy’s defense.

“Of all the thing’s I’d question here,” Knight Gallia says resolutely. “Padawan Kenobi’s _discipline_ isn’t one of them.”

“You approve of the way that boy speaks to his masters? Challenges the wisdom of his elders? Forsakes tradition?” The elderly devaronian frowns.

Master Fay lets loose a charming laugh, trailing alongside Master Yoda in his hoverchair, one hand on its frame as if to keep him from slipping away. Master Yoda looks disgruntled, but then, the manner with which she treats her grandpadawan is perhaps undignified.

“You’d be surprised, young elder, how true to tradition many of his propositions are.” Fay says. “We were not once so tied to a single government, and once not so self-indulgently insular. What you know as tradition is remarkedly different from those I was raised under, or Yoda, for that matter.”

“And those traditions were set aside for good reason.” Master Savigo replies snidely. “The Order is now what it is because that is what the galaxy _needed_ us to be.”

“Forgive me,” Fay remarks, her mist grey eyes going cold, her skin seeming to pale, her hair darken and dull. “I hadn’t realized you were there at the time. That you survived the last great Sith War, and saw the fall of Ossus.”

“I was not-“

“No. You weren’t.” Fay says sharply, grief building around her like stone, weighing down the air with painful pressure. “But _I_ was.”

For the first time since her arrival, Master Yoda offers her a kind look, taking her fair hand in his gnarled green ones, and the weight of the sky draws away as she releases that old, unforgettable pain into the Force, the brightness within her, that defined her, seeping back in.

“The Ruusan Reformation _was_ needed.” She admits. “Without the decisions that were made then, the galaxy would have fallen into ruin. But we are here now because it has served its purpose and serves it no longer. It is crippling this Order, and the galaxy will follow. It always does.”

“The Jedi are not an archetype of fate.” Master Koon says quietly, tone stern and contemplative.

“No, but the Force is, and it lives and breathes in us.” Fay replies. “Where we go, it will follow.”

~*~

“Please stop laughing.” Obi-Wan groans, giving Quinlan a shove as the kiffar chortles.

“Oh, Obi, it had to happen sometime.” The older boy teases, draping himself over Obi-Wan’s shoulder for support, chest still quaking.

“Obi-_Wan_.” Obi-Wan corrects mulishly, feeling his face flood with heat when his voice cracks on the second syllable.

It sets Quinlan off again, snickering until it hurt to breathe, tears pricking at his eyes.

“It’s not that bad.” Taria offers, the curl of her lips rather thwarting her attempt to make him feel less humiliated.

“In the middle of addressing the _entire_ Congregation.” Obi-Wan retorts. “ And I sounded like a malfunctioning mouse-droid.”

~ _This is_…~ Padawan Rudaban’s hands twitch for a moment, uncertain, and Obi-Wan has trouble identifying what he signs next.

“Oh yeah, it happens with all human males.” Taria explains readily, out of habit and with complete disregard to anyone else in her audience. “It’s part of puberty – uh, growing up.” She explains to the kaleesh, to Obi-Wan’s further embarrassment.

“Speaking of growing up…” Bant says thoughtfully, reaching out to pluck at the cuff of his sleeve. “You’re getting a little short in the hems, Obi. You should go see the quarter master again.”

Obi-Wan shifts, tugging on his sleeves so they aren’t so far up his wrists and shrugs. “I’ll wait until my master gets back. We have to be careful with the silks, because they’re hard to come by.”

He doesn’t mention the significance of the Concoridan Silk, nor does he mention that he finds it funny how his master always seems _perplexed_ when Obi-Wan has to be refitted, like he doesn’t expect him to actually grow.

“If you say so.” Bant replies easily. “How is your master? Enjoying himself on Alderaan?”

“He never made it to Alderaan.” Obi-Wan replies off-hand. “Their vessel crashed somewhere in the Celedean Ice Belt and they’re awaiting rescue, but I expect Alderaan will find them today or tomorrow, given the information they have.”

“What?” Siri snaps, grabbing his arm.

“They think the ship was sabotaged.” Obi-Wan explains, no longer overly concerned. Master Ben had seemed nonplussed, Senator Organa was alright, and Queen Breha – or, well, Queen Breha’s _people_ \- would find them shortly. The entire affair, as far as he was concerned, was well in hand. Letting himself worry over it now would do nothing but give him a stomach ache, and he had concerns in his own present to better focus his anxiety on. Like his sudden and overwhelming disinclination to speak publicly ever again. Or at least until his voice stopped betraying him.

“By the _sith_, Obi-Wan.” Siri says, scandalized, and precisely two seconds later, Obi-Wan remembers who her master is.

“Oh Force, don’t tell Knight Gallia!” He blurts.

“After he argued that much - !” Siri protests.

“No one could have thought-“

“ – about how he would be absolutely fine-“

“ – just an invitation to an engagement party-“

“ – and didn’t need a partner-“

“ – as a _friend_-“

“ – when he didn’t even have you-“

“ - so it really shouldn’t have – thank you for that – been a jedi matter-“

“And he went and crashed. He’s ridiculous! You’re both ridiculous! Master Adi was completely right! He does need a minder!”

“He’s not that bad.” Obi-Wan protests.

“You are both that bad!” Siri retorts.

“Are they always like this?” Taria murmurs, leaning towards Quinlan before apparently remembering _what_ Quinlan was, and leaning back warily.

Quinlan just quirks a brow, but the edges of his smile are thin, and his eyes take on a gleam that makes Obi-Wan more watchful. Weakness was always an incitement to the Dark Side. Peoples fear of Quinlan just made Quinlan worse.

“Pretty much.” The kiffar drawls, peeling himself off on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Siri _loves_ an argument and Obi-Wan argues _so well_.”

Siri shoots the older boy a dirty look, but can’t keep it up when Quinlan just smiles flirtily back at her. She turns red and return to glowering at Obi-Wan, arms crossed.

“Just don’t get him in trouble with Knight Gallia.” Obi-Wan pleads. “C’mon Siri, he’s fine!”

“Obi-Wan, you just told me that the vessel he was on was sabotaged and crashed in dead space! You just told me that he is, _literally_, at this moment, on a chunk of ice somewhere awaiting rescue. Am I somehow mistaken about that?”

“No.” Obi-Wan replies reluctantly.

“That’s not _fine_!”

“But-“

“How do you even know?” Taria inquires abruptly, a thoughtful look in her golden eyes.

Obi-Wan and Siri both pause. Obi-Wan shifts on his feet a little. “He told me.” Obi-Wan says.

“But how?” She presses. “Awaiting rescue usually means the comms aren’t that good. And in an Ice Belt? He’d have been found already if they had that kind of communication running.”

“You’re _very_ perceptive.” Quinlan comments, something like a warning in his tone.

“I’m just curious.”

“We share dreams sometimes.” Obi-Wan admits, not liking the sudden scrutiny. All of his friends shift in surprise, some a little more worried about the implications of that than others.

Taria looks like she might say something more – and there could be a lot to say about that, about that kind of connection, the intensity of it – and how it _had_ to be intense, if they are sharing dreams from halfway across the Core.

He doesn’t admit, and _won’t_ admit, that they’ve shared dreams over far greater distances than that.

But Taria stops herself, pauses, and nods simply, accepting it at that, and Obi-Wan feels a wash of relief. And then he turns back to Siri.

“You don’t have to tell her.” He insists. “It’s not even really Jedi business. Besides, it’s not like your master needs any _more_ stress right now, right?”

“Thin ice, Kenobi.” Siri mutters, eyes narrowed at the low blow of his argument. “Really thin ice. Fine.”

Obi-Wan smiles cheekily. “I’ll tread softly then.”


	23. Chapter 23

The Royal Plaza was crowded – not terribly so, but then, the entirety of the Capitol of Alderaan was designed so that no place would ever seem to be _terribly_ crowded. All tall spires and outward-leaning angles and sweeping open spaces like the valleys between mountains, nowhere completely cut off from the sky, or from nature.

It was just past mid-day, and members of parliament and the royal houses where still milling, pausing to take in the fresh air after frustrating each other for hours.

“Lord Organa.” Breha calls out, letting her voice carry clear into the air. Those between her and the man turning towards her politely maneuver aside as the Queen and her small retinue stride through. One of her small Antilles cousins isn’t quite as polite, but then, neither is he quite as _aware_ of what _the Queen_ is, other than Cousin Breha. He looks around curiously when the adults all step away, and spots her, and smiles. Breha smiles back, gesturing gently for him to run after his mother. He blows her a kiss and scampers.

All eyes are on her, some shrewd, some curious, some wary.

“Breha.” Her mother sighs softly. Breha pauses, making pointed eye contact with a patiently bemused Lord Organa before turning to her mother. Her mother is sad, and Breha is sorry for it, but they both already know that no argument will ever change her mind. Breha was not Queen by happenstance.

Her grandfather has a hand on her mother’s elbow, and his countenance is far less somber. He was always a difficult man to read, her grandfather. Canny, yet rigid in ways you often would not suspect. He’d tutted when she told him, cupping her face in his wrinkled hands, and this morning strode proudly along side her through the State Offices, and nearly sent one of his adversarial counterparts into an anxiety attack with nothing more than a sly, knowing smirk. Then again, her grandfather was not an Antilles by birth.

Breha clasps her mother’s hand and lifts it to her lips, pressing a dry, soft kiss on her knuckles. Her mother smiles faintly.

“You’ll always be my daughter.”

“Always, mama.” Breha assures her, and then releases her.

It is best to do this now. Before Bail is returned, before his influence over her may call her legitimacy into question. Before any other attempt on his life can be made.

Breha will make her point, and it _will_ be final.

Breha leaves her attendants and her family behind her and strides across the open space towards Bail’s father.

Her hair is piled in a single long braid, coiled and coiled up on her head. Sofia had fretted over it all morning, and even Natoya had seemed wistful, running a comb through the locks. Breha reaches up and pulls out the three pins holding the coils in place, letting the rope of it fall across her back.

In less than a moment, the plaza falls quiet and still. People stop moving, milling, whispering, everyone just watching now.

Breha pulls a thin, silver blade from her sleeve, reaches up, and cuts the long braid loose. The lack of its weight is immediately unsettling, but Breha ignores that. She focuses on the momentary flash of stark terror on Lord Organa’s face, the weight of her actions immediately evident to him, and Breha does feel a twinge that she did not warn him.

“_Bail_.” He breathes out, voice low and choked with fear.

“He _is_ coming home.” Breha whispers back, a firm reassurance, just between the two of them.

Panic fades, and his head rises a little, his posture reaffirming itself at the knowledge that she did not do this because Bail had died.

Breha drops the blade, letting it clatter. Someone nearby flinches at the silver peal. Breha pulls the length of the braid from her shoulder and lowers herself quickly and gracefully to her knees. She lifts the coil of her hair in two hands, offering it up to him.

“I, Breha of the House Antilles, made a promise to your family, Lord Organa.” She says, letting her voice carry, her face titled up to him. “To bind your House to my name. To carry on your Lineage through me. Regardless of circumstance, I _will_ honor that promise. I cleave myself of my history, that a new future may take root in me. I set aside my House, and my Lineage. I set aside the name Antilles. I am only Breha.”

He takes the length of hair in hand, though he too looks a little rueful that it had to be cut, but Breha would not do this declaration by halves.

“Only Breha.” He huffs beneath his breath, winding the coil of her hair around his hand. “As if that were a meager thing.”

Breha bites her tongue, because he is so like Bail in so many ways.

He clasps her hands and pulls her to her feet. “You are Breha _Organa_.” He declares, letting it carry. And then he kneels. “I offer you my House, and pray my Lineage is worthy of your name.” Her turns her hands, not yet released, and lays a kiss on each palm, a subject in supplication to his Queen. A father in reverence to his daughter.

Breha squeezes his fingers tightly, and then lets go, stepping back. He remains on his knees. He turns up his palms and bows his head.

“Queen Breha Organa.” The name rings out in his bold voice, and Breha’s people bow their heads, and turn up their palms.

“Queen Breha Organa.”

It’s not a shout, but an acknowledgement. An affirmation, over and over and over, a tide spilling through her people until it was undoubtable.

_Queen Breha Organa_.

She always did like the sound of that.

The breeze tickles through her short hair, uneven strands flaring wildly in it’s grasp, and Breha closes her eyes briefly, pressing against the sting of tears.

Bail would be so distressed. He loved her hair.

~*~

“Company is coming.”

Trip pries open his eyelids, groaning lowly as he does, and forces himself to focus on the other jedi, who has pushed himself to his feet like no one else is going to notice the fact that he sways as he does so.

To be fair, Jashmir was likely only still alive because Master Naasade was a stubborn son of a gundark, and wasn’t keeping him in a healing trance so much as some sort of inexplicable stasis, the kind jedi foundthemselves in when on the brink of death, calling on some unknown reserve of power and instinct to do what shouldn’t be possible to do.

Trip’s just never seen it done _intentionally_, let alone on another being, let alone one who wasn’t even Force Sensitive.

It had to be taking a lot out of him, on top of everything else.

“G’d kind or bad?” Trip rasps, his mouth, his throat, his lungs all raw, a tacky gel of blood and phlegm congealing in his throat. His lungs crackles when he breathed, and coughing was – he didn’t even want to think about coughing.

“I have a good feeling about it.” Master Naasade replies lightly, turning towards Senator Organa, who was caught somewhere between looming and hovering, unable to actually _touch_ his friend to ease him back to the floor. “It appears you’ll be home in time for the Engagement Celebration after all.”

“It appears so.” Senator Organa replies with dry humor barely masking stark relief.

A few minutes later and they can all hear the rush-roar of thrusters overhead, and then the entire cabin gives a jarring jolt.

“Oh dear.” Naasade grunts, hitting the wall and sliding down limply. “Could they not do that?”

Another jolt, accompanied by a worrying grind of ice against metal, and the rescue vessel latches on, heaving them up. Senator Organa staggers, and Naasade looks like he might be sick.

Trip feels a hand land on his shoulder, tense, and quirks a brow up at Adjunct Bey, who is watching his charges with a grim worry that doesn’t belong on a nervous attendants face.

_You’re slipping, Lachas Bey_. Trip thinks critically.

“I wan’ cake.” Trip mutters at him distractingly. “Firs’ thing.”

Lachas looks down at him with a crinkled brow, lips twisted in dismay, and Trip forgets he’s not supposed to laugh, at least until – pain.

And then coughing. Lachas helps him roll slightly as he hacks up viscous.

“Is his airway-?” Medical Officer Dorias snaps.

“He’s not choking.” Bey replies.

_I beg to differ_. Trip thinks bitterly, while fire crawls through his chest and lances at his ribcage, digging vengeful claws into his throat until it feels like he’s choking on shattered glass, not viscous.

He draws a hand to his chest and forces himself to stop feeling the pain, clouding his senses with a numbness until nerves stop firing spasmodically, and the coughing fit passes. He can feel Naasade’s _focus-intent_ sharpen on him with a spike of _worry-alarm_, but Third Brother can’t summon the discipline right now acknowledge the fact that he’s practically suffocating himself just to stop coughing. It’s not exactly a clean trade, but it works and he doesn’t pass out.

When he starts breathing again, he can only take shallow breathes, and his lungs respond slowly, almost stickily refusing to expand. He might honestly need new ones, at this point. Luckily, Alderaan has some of the best medical services in the galaxy.

“Cake.” He repeats, though the word barely passes his lips, coming out garbled. Bey sighs like he knows what he meant anyways, and that cheers Trip a little.

Trip doesn’t notice that the hatch is opened until their rescuers are already inside the compartment, suited up and clearly warned of the chemical contamination, the rush of oxygen and clean air hits him, cutting through the miasma of _blood-sickness-stress-sweat_ that had pervaded the small space.

A hand touches his brow, as he’s being moved around, and he thinks that’s weird, that it’s not something other spy would do or should do, and it’s not until he feels the heady envelopment around his mind that he realizes it’s Naasade, putting him under.

He struggles, at first, but there’s nothing to gain purchase on in that mental tide, just a warm sense of weight, of ease, and then-

‘_They’re going to shove a tube down your throat. Do you really want to be awake_?’

Well, when he puts it like that…

_No_.

He lets himself succumb, and it’s only on the last edges of his thoughts that he feels a strike of shrill fear, that Naasade had slipped so easily inside his shields – _his_ shields, and he, the _Third_ in the Order of Shadows - so as to speak with him at all.

Because he shouldn’t have been able to do that.

_No one_ should be able to do that.


	24. Chapter 24

“You still don’t understand, do you?” Master Windu sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between two tense fingers, pressing back a headache.

The honest answer would be _no_, but Obi-Wan, at this point, doesn’t feel like being honest. Master Windu has walked him through an explanation three times now, and Obi-Wan understands the concept – he thinks – but it’s not helping him put the theory in order for his assignment. Every time he tries, he gets more and more angry at himself, because it’s not turning out how it’s supposed to.

If he wants to be _really_ honest, Master Windu looks on the verge of tears of frustration, and Obi-Wan is on the verge of tears of humiliation. The councilor had offered him help with his studies, but clearly, he hadn’t expected it to be so _difficult_. By all accounts, Depa Billaba was an exemplary student, and had soared through her studies with excellent marks.

Obi-Wan is definitely no Depa Billaba.

It doesn’t help that both of them are already mentally wrung out from dealing with the congregation, and Obi-Wan his classes, and the fact that between the two he hasn’t been putting in much if any time on his _physical_ training, the lack of which leaves him restless at night.

“I’m getting there.” Obi-Wan says quietly, a semi-convincing half-truth that Master Windu is tired enough to let lie, nodding wearily. “Thank you, Master Windu, but I think I should retire. I’ll finish my assignment in the morning.” He promises.

Master Windu gives him a shrewd look, but doesn’t protest that intention. Obi-Wan packs up his materials and the councilor shows him out with a curt “Good night, Padawan Kenobi.” That he returns with a bow.

He checks his comm as he makes his way back to his quarters, relieved to find an update from Queen Breha – or someone in her service, he’s not sure who is actually on the other end of that line of code – that his Master and Senator Organa have been successfully recovered and are receiving medical treatment on their way to Alderaan. It’s not quite yet time for the night bell, but close enough that the Temple is dimmed, everything slightly more muted, the corridors fairly empty of the day-cycle dwellers, and the nocturnal jedi not yet up and around.

He’s tired, and yet even thinking about collapsing in bed makes his skitch itch and his muscles twitch, and he isn’t looking forward to staring at the ceiling or the wall for an hour until he manages to meditate himself into sleep.

Which makes finding Taria waiting for him outside his quarters something of a relief.

“More midnight shenanagans?” Obi-Wan inquires, striding up to his door, shuffling his datapads under one arm so he can enter the access code. “What are we all up to tonight?”

His access code is rejected.

“Not all.” Taria remarks, bouncing to her feet from having been sitting against the wall. “I thought… maybe just us?” She offers.

Obi-Wan can read Shmi’s handiwork at a glance now, but he pauses in the midst of attacking the new encryption on his door and glances at her. She meets his eye, glances away, and then back again.

“Oh.” Obi-Wan says softly, feeling his stomach tighten a little and his face warm up.

“You don’t have to.” Taria offers quickly, a nervous edge to her smile.

“No – I mean yes, I mea-“ His voice cracks, and his face floods with heat. “What did you have in mind?” He asks, voice a half-whisper in the hopes that it won’t squeak so badly.

Taria grins, biting her lower lip to courteously repress a laugh at his expense. “Well, I told you my favorite thing about my Temple. How about you show me yours?”

Obi-Wan thinks for a moment about the song tree above the waterfall in the gardens, but that not so much his as it is his-and-his-master’s. For Obi-Wan, it was… the planetarium observatory.

“Yeah,” Obi-Wan nods. “I could – we could do that. Just…”He tries the door again, and the code makes a mess of his attempt, and the corellian girl lifts a bold blue-green brow.

“This…._is_ your door, right?”

“I’ve been locked out.”

“Of your own door?”

“It’s…. something my master, Padawan Skywalker and I do. We code each other out.” Obi-Wan explains, attacking the new problem and hoping he doesn’t take an embarrassing amount of time to find his way through. His master was always just carefully above his skill level, always had a trick to teach that Obi-Wan could figure out with a little effort, but Shmi wasn’t so precise. With Shmi, it was more of a challenge than a learning tool. And not always one he won.

“That doesn’t seem quite fair. I mean, what if you really needed in there?” Taria frowns a little.

Obi-Wan frowns, still tapping away. “Well, if it’s not an emergency, I can take the time to figure it out – or admit defeat.” He says. “And if it is an emergency, I always have my lightsaber.”

She snorts, and then pauses.

“Oh, you’re really not kidding.” She mutters. “Why _do_ you always carry your lightsaber? I mean, you even wear yours to class. Most Jedi set theirs aside when they’re in Temple.”

Obi-Wan chews on his lip, pretending to focus harder on coding, but the truth is is that he’s hesitating. It’s not like he’s ashamed, exactly, but… She is right, in that it’s not something other Jedi – padawans especially – do.

They wouldn’t have cause to, would they? Why carry a weapon in a place that is meant to be home? Meant to be _safe_?

Obi-Wan clenches and unclenches his right hand, feeling the tendons flex, and the bones of his wrist grate. He doesn’t need the brace all the time now, but he still needs it. “You probably heard the rumors of what happened to my last lightsaber.” Obi-Wan says, and finally gets somewhere with Shmi’s coding.

She shifts a bit on her balance, a sharp look in her eyes and a thoughtful line in her brows. “I heard that it blew up in your hand.” She admits slowly.

Obi-Wan nods, a short, jerky thing.

“But I also heard that’s because you were using a blade too high-powered for a padawan.” She adds.

The door swicks open, and Obi-Wan huffs a little, and unclips his saber, offering the hilt to her. She leans back in surprise, brows shooting up, but something about that seems forced, like she really wants to do what she does a second later, which is wrap her hand around the grip, not taking it from him, but just… getting a feel for it. Her fingers have hardly closed around the hilt before she’s snapping her hand away.

“Seven hells.” She swears, shaking out her hand and looking at him with a dumbfounded expression. Obi-Wan smirks.

“The last one wasn’t _so_ powerful, but…” He shrugs.

Her shock doesn’t last long, though she gives the lightsaber a dirty look as he clips it back to his belt – the adegan crystals had probably given her a start in a way that kyber wouldn’t have. Then she’s offering him an intrigued and speculative look.

“If your last lightsaber overloaded, why the kark would you build one even _more_ powerful?” She asks, taking a few steps after him as he ducks into his quarters, but politely remaining in the entry-way as he drops off his datapads.

“Because it wasn’t an accident.” Obi-Wan says measuredly. “Which is why I never leave this one lying around.”

“What do you mean it wasn’t an accident?” She ask, a tad too sharply. Obi-Wan absently traces the scar on his face and escorts her back out the door without answering.

“C’mon, you wanted to see my favorite place, right?” He offers his hand, glosing right past her question.

Frustration flickers over her face as she stares at him, and then her gaze drops to his hand, and her own hand twitches, her expression softening into something a bit sheepish and shy. She acts abruptly, clapping her hand into his, and then glances away, her cheeks darkening a little.

“Yeah, I did.” She mutters, and Obi-Wan grins, tugging her along and praying she didn’t notice his hand getting clammy.

For someone raised right next door to the Exploracorps, it occurs to him that the planetarium display might now be all that entrancing to her, when star-charting was a corellian speciality, but he doubts that Corellia has quite as extensive visual records as Coruscant. Even if they did, he doubts he’ll have ever seen the system he pulls up, a fierce blue star, a golden-green gleaming band of gases, and a field of shimmering worlds, all small and refractive, either primordial or ice; It has no name, just a long catalogue designation for a system whose star has since collapsed.

But while it shone, it was so, so very beautiful.

He draws her into the display as it spins slowly, and once it turns just right-

“Is this real?” She asks, a wide smile lighting up her face as a solar system blossoms into a brilliant flower.

“It was.” He says, watching her watching the stars. “But even stars burn out.”

Taria turns towards him, her face dazzled in the glow, and her lips quirk. “That’s what makes them what they are.” She says, and then he’s staggering a little because she’s leaning in and kissing him, and she snatches him by the tabard to keep him from tripping over his own feet.

“Did I scare you?” She lifts brow, but there is something uncertain threading through her voice.

“I – n-no, it’s I ju-“ His voice cracks, and Obi-Wan feels like his face is boiling. She lets go, and he can definitely tell that her face is red now too, and he – well, lurches, catching her hand and then hesitating. “Um – I – can we-“

Her smile twitches back to life and she tilts her head. “Try again?” She offers.

He can’t quite breathe well enough to say _yes_, but she’s watching him expectantly and so he leans forward and…

It’s soft, and dry, and warm, and he feels like sparks are dancing across his skin, all warmth and fluttery energy singing through him. He can feel her mouth spread into a smile again as she puffs out a laugh.

They pull apart and Obi-Wan half wants to cover his face in his hands and hide and half wants to do that again. He does neither, and instead stands there like an idiot who can’t meet her eyes even though she’s smiling sweetly at him.

They’re still holding hands. She threads her fingers through his, and at the same time, Obi-Wan can feel her reaching out, hesitant and buoyant in the Force, lightly tapping at his shields.

“I think you need to breathe soon.” Taria points out teasingly.

Obi-Wan nods, but it takes another moment before he actually sucks in air, and lets it out in a whoosh.

She bites her lip, containing a grin. “You’re really sweet, Obi-Wan Kenobi.” She says, like it's the most endearing thing in the world, that he's flustered and off-balance.

“And you’re really…something.” Obi-Wan replies awkwardly, thinking that’s he’s not capable of thinking at all. Right now. While she’s holding his hand. And just kissed him.

She laughs. “Yeah. Yeah I am.” She agrees, and Obi-Wan, just like that, relaxes, and this, he thinks, this is easy. He laughs too, sheepish and embarrassed and thrilled, and Taria looks back up at the light of the display, watching the shape of the flower fall apart.

“Show me another one.” She requests.


	25. Chapter 25

“Please tell me you have something in that teapot that will overcome the taste of bacta.” Ben pleads, sweeping onto the viewing deck where he had been told he could find Bail.

Bail’s head snaps up from where he had been leaning over a datapad with a studious frown, a smile tugging at his lips that turns into a look of surprise, his brows shooting up. Ben runs a hand over the smooth skin of his face and the fine bristle of his scruff, and smirks at his friend. The last Bail had seen of him, being bundled into medical care, his skin had been raw and covered with peeling blisters. It hadn’t been pretty.

“Bacta.” Bail repeats. “It seems…effective.”

“Like you would not imagine.” Ben nods, taking a seat when Bail invites him to join the table. Ben was utterly relieved to find bacta trickling back into the galactic market, and more so that Alderaan had already invested in it. “But the smell and the taste can linger in the sinuses for days.” Ben complains, as Bail pours him a cup. “Unpleasantly.”

The taste of herbal flowers did flood his sinuses with the first sip, and Ben savored it for a long moment, studying Bail from a half-glance. The young senator was trying, very studiously, to distract himself, but the almost overpowering floral tea and the tight line of his broad shoulders told Ben that he was urgently impatient to be home after their ordeal.

Bail peruses the datapad, frowns, takes a sip of tea, sighs, frowns, sighs again.

“Bail.” Ben says quietly.

“The nav-com data.” Bail tilts the datapad. “Our hyperspace calculations were off by a fraction of a decimal point. We weren’t misdirected so much as we simply…drifted off course. The security protocols didn’t catch it because it was just inside marginal parameters for hyperspace fluctuations. Anywhere but the deep core and it probably wouldn’t have mattered.”

“Which suggests it was done by someone intimately familiar with both your security protocols and your private route.” Ben murmurs.

“It’s a diplomatic transport operating under royal security.” Bail says flatly, his warm brown eyes dark and unhappy.

Ben nods, acknowledging the implications of those tightly defined conditions. “Then the threat came from one of the royal houses – unless you suspect that Breha’s people were compromised?”

Bail shakes his head minutely, and Ben doesn’t doubt him. The Alderaani Royal Service, in all the years that Ben had known of them, had never once broken faith.

“How flattering of you to imply we both don’t know which house the threat likely came from.” Bail murmurs.

Ben quirks his lips ruefully, taking another sip. “House Antilles, then?” Ben lifts a brow.

“I suspect so.” Bail nods.

“My sympathies to Breha.” Ben murmurs quietly, truly sorry.

“I appreciate that, though I doubt she’ll need them.” Bail sets aside the datapad, abandoning it, and worries his tea cup between his hands. “If we even suspect it, it’s likely she already _knows_.”

“Has she called?”

“No. I’ll see her when we arrive.” Bail says. “A voice over the comm never quite suits after situations like these.”

And undoubtedly, the Queen had much to attend to.

Bail isn’t wrong.

Breha is the very first person they see when they arrive, and Bail stumbles a step coming down the ramp, and Ben misses his elbow to steady him because he’s rather shocked too-

“Breha, your _hair_.” Bail gasps, aghast.

Breha smiles, full of indulgence, and strides forward, reaching out to take his hands in hers before he can tip his head in greeting, drawing him in towards her. “I _knew_ you’d fret.” She teases.

“ I – “ Bail is actually speechless, and he frees one hand and lifts it, but stops shy of actually touching the artfully arranged shorter locks, no doubt out of respect and fear of whichever handmaiden performed that endeavor this morning.

Ben decides to rescue his friend, and steps forward, lifting his palms and lowering his head. “I find your new look quite fetching, Queen Breha.” Ben smiles. “Shorter hair is quite the fashion on Mandalore.” He remarks.

Even Duchess Satine had not given up that traditional cut, in spite of all the upheaved standards of the New Mandalorians.

“I am not quite certain that I would be suited for a war helmet.” Queen Breha smiles. “Though I am pleased it meets with your approval, Master Ben.”

Bail regains his footing.

“Breha, Jedi Master Ben Naasade.” He offers the official introduction. “Ben, Queen Breha An-“

“Organa.” Breha corrects, calm and resolute and with a touch of defiant pride in the tilt of her jaw. “Queen Breha _Organa_.”

She’s stolen words from him again.

Bail closes his mouth, swallows, and, in the first that Ben has ever witness in _either_ lifetime – Bail Organa _blushes_.

~*~

“Missus?”

Fay pauses, turning curiously, and the call comes again. “Missus Master Fay?” The initiate says, jaunting forward on short little legs.

“What is it, little one?” Fay crouches down, and the little girl smiles toothily. And then the smiles fades away.

“Master Yoda is sad.” The youngling reports, very somber and seriously.

“Oh?”

“M-hn. He was teaching us and then – then he stopped and he got sad, and he left even though he wasn’t done for the hour and we got told to meditate but…. But I snuck out because we’re sad that Master Yoda is sad and you’re his grandmaster so I thought… you could make him better. Because master’s watch out for their padawans, but his master isn’t here, but you are, so…”

“You should breathe, little one. You’re very kind, though I’m sure now you’ve made your creche master very worried, sneaking out like that.”

“Not really.” The youngling insists. “We’re really good at sneaking. Padawan Skywalker taught us. My creche master is used to it. He sighs a lot, and _loudly_, but he smiles sometimes when we show him how good we are.”

“Is that so?” Fay smiles, intrigued, but the youngling has brought a more serious matter to her attention, and she’ll attend to that first. “Then I commend you on your skills, little one. I’ll go find my grandpadawan, shall I? And you go find your clan.” Fay stands, and shoos them off.

“Tell him we want him to be happy!” The youngling says shrilly, dashing away.

“I promise.” Fay says. The youngling gives a sharp, jerky nod, and then – _disappears_.

Fay blinks. It’s not quite as seamless a vanishing as Naasade’s, and she can still feel them in the corridor, but as for hiding from sight – it’s impressive.

Very impressive.

Padawan Skywalker taught them _that_?

Fay’s met the woman of course, and heard plenty involving her name, but actually catching the woman for a conversation was difficult, and Fay hadn’t intentionally sought the industrious young woman out – having no real reason to other than mere curiosity. But perhaps she will.

Later.

Fay is not one of those jedi who must cast out with her senses – for her, balancing herself with the Force requires reigning them in, making them smaller, duller, weaker, and it is by loosening that tight hold she has on them that the universe starts pouring in. It’s giddying, at first, in a place like the Temple, so full of life and light energy.

She knows her grandpadawan well enough to _hope_ he has retreated to the gardens, to his favorite tree. But her senses tell her he has done more than that – he has secluded himself away in his quarters, in a self-isolating sulk she thought he’d left behind somewhere in his third century.

His door isn’t locked, and Fay invites herself in. The air in his quarters is humid, smelling of bamboo and gimer and the moss cushions that take up his private space in place of couches or a table. The quarters are small, and old, in the lowest levels of the living quarters in the Temple. Mushrooms grow from wooden beams in the ceiling, phosphorescent and candy-colored, and a tea tray balances between the two wide terracotta pots overflowing with moss that make up his furniture.

“Does your new padawan live here?” Fay inquires lightly, inviting herself to take a seat across from him, where he is huddled in his robe, ears drooping, tea going cold in the chipped cup held between gnarled hands.

This was always the hardest part, for Fay – it wasn’t watching her students die, and their students, and their students after them. She had learned to accept death, and glimpsed what happened through death. She’d see them again, there in the Force. Of that she was certain.

It was watching them grow old and tired that ached in her chest and chilled her bones and made her want to weep.

“In the padawan dorms, she resides.” Yoda grumbles. “Invite you in, I did not.”

“You haven’t offered me tea, either.” Fay replies pointedly. Yoda scowls, setting his cup aside, and pours one for her. She knows from experience it will be terribly bitter and slightly fibrous, but she inured herself to the blend ages ago. With guests, he preferred sapir tea, but for himself alone… well, Fay called it swamp tea.

“You left a class of younglings wanting, today.”

“Left wanting, I have left many.” He says bitterly. “Without my faults, better, they will be. See it, I can. Change, there is now. Much change. Rigid, am I. Resistant. Fail them, I do.”

“Do not think I came here to lecture you on _duty_, Yoda.” Fay murmurs, frowning worriedly over him. “There is more to your life than that. You made them sad, because _you_ are sad, and they want you to be happy.”

“Happy, I thought I was. Content. See, I did not.”

“Age does not bring omnipresence, padawan of my padawan.” Fay sighs. “You know this.”

“Know? Know, what do I?” Yoda mutters sourly. “So much knowledge, I thought I had. Ignorant. Ignorant, I have been. Much worse - ignorance, I have taught.”

That was quite enough self-pity for Fay. She gulps her tea, grimacing, swings her legs back over the edge of the moss-pot, reaches over and scoops him up before he can scramble away, catching on to her intentions.

“Bite me, Yoda, and I will shake you like an unruly tooka.” She warns. She has a scar on the inside of her upper arm from one such incident, but he’d been a padawan himself at the time. “You are coming with me whether you like it or not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Today has been...miserable.  
But.  
Today also happens to be 9/23.  
Which makes it six months today that I first started posting The Desert Storm. That's _ half a year_ everybody. What?!


	26. Chapter 26

Obi-Wan rubs at his eyes and blearily pulls draws his comm across the table with the Force. At his elbow, his half-eaten breakfast is congealing and growing cold, and his hands are starting to shake with the amount of caf he’s already drunk. He doesn’t even particularly _like_ caf.

“Kenobi.” He clicks the comm, answering the call and hoping he’s not late for something he forgot he needed to attend this morning. He glances at the chrono on the wall. He doesn’t think he was supposed to be anywhere _just_ yet.

He was really pushing the deadline for this assignment though, and he still wasn’t sure his rambling conclusion made any sense whatsoever.

“_Padawan_?” His master’s voice filters through the link, and Obi-Wan switches it over to a holocall, the man appearing in shades of blue.

Obi-Wan grins. “_Master_,” He greets cheerily. “ there are flowers in your hair.”

“_I hadn’t noticed_.” His master remarks dryly, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. Then his eyes narrow slightly, and Obi-Wan scratches at the side of his neck in a nervous tell.

“_You look tired_.” His master says softly. “_Nightmares_?” He inquires.

“No.” Obi-Wan says. “Well, just the one.” He corrects. “It’s just – I’m – There’s a lot going on.” Obi-Wan says. “And I may have snuck out at night a few times.”

His master’s brow twitches.

“_I’m not sure you can ‘sneak out’ when your master isn’t actually present to catch you_.” He says, amused. “_And I’m not sure I would have bothered to ‘catch’ you if I _were_ in residence.”_

Obi-Wan shrugs to that, absently thinking that his Master and Master Ti had all sorts of habits in common that would give other masters – _normal_ masters – fits. It still _felt_ like sneaking out. Fooling around in the gardens, kissing Taria under-

_Kissing_ Taria.

Obi-Wan can feel his ears turn red and his face start to flame, and he’s deeply glad that it’s difficult to spot a blush through holo.

“_What are you struggling with?”_ His master asks.

“What?”

Obi-Wan earns himself two lifted brows with that lapse, and squirms a little, feeling sheepish.

“_I can tell you’ve nearly been tearing your hair out, Obi-Wan. What are you struggling with? Or are you just stressed overall_?” His master asks, unfairly intuitive. “_You can tell the council to back off, you know. You’ve taken a lot onto your shoulders, and not all of it is yours to bear. You can step back and let others handle this_.”

“Can I?” Obi-Wan quirks a wry, unhappy brow with that assessment. His master waits patiently, and Obi-Wan deflates a little. “I wish I could tell my homework to back off.” He grumbles. “I’m not having a problem with the congregation so much as I am with making everything else work around it.”

“_So you’ve been skimping on sleep_.” His master points out. “_Which is only ever a short-term solution, Padawan. In the long run, you are only making everything that much harder, as you are attempting to attend to your responsibilities while at less and less than your best_.”

“I kno-w” Obi-Wan complains, and his voice cracks.

“_Oh dear_.”

“_Don’t_.” Obi-Wan buries his face in his hands. “That’s been happening too.”

“_I suppose it _was_ about time_.” Master Ben remarks.

“Nn.” Obi-Wan grunts, rubbing at his face and dropping his hands, looking back up at the call. “I just… I don’t want to give any of it up. And I _can’t_ give less attention to my homework.”

“_That’s not always a decision we get to make, Obi-Wan. We have to choose those things which deserve to be our priorities, and put them first, even if we must let go of other things – whether we truly want to or not_.” His master says more seriously. “_That is part of the life of a Jedi_.”

“What if everything deserves to be a priority?” Obi-Wan asks.

His master grimaces. It’s a look Obi-Wan is getting used to – one of experience, and one that meant that the experience was painful.

“_Then we still have to choose._” His master replies. “_And hope for the best_.”

“What if we choose wrong?” Obi-Wan asks, more deeply afraid than he had realized, of choosing wrong.

_“I don’t think I’m the right person to ask that question, Obi-Wan.”_ His master replies, quietly bitter.

Obi-Wan frowns at him, wondering how they had gotten from flowers to bitterness. “You’re my master.” Obi-Wan states firmly. “You’re _always_ the right person to ask.”

Master Ben huffs, and one of the petals slides out of his hair, bouncing off his nose as it falls away. “_Then I can only say you learn to live with yourself, and the choices you made. Even if they were the wrong choices.”_

~*~

There was dirt, and then there was filth. Fay had long ago decided she’d rather walk through bog than the decaying underbelly of an overdeveloped city-scape.

And yet.

And yet she often found herself far more needed in places of human misery and poverty than in places of molting vegetation and open skies.

Billboards and lamplight replaced much of the natural day, the deeper down you went in Coruscant, and faint reflections of sunlight became no sunlight at all, just flashing reams of traffic, bright fiberoptics, and commercial displays, all forming a clashing riot of color and saturated light. The businesses were smaller, housing more crowded. Garbage and junk clogged walkways and abandoned tunnels, and the people were less and less likely to look up.

“Do you ever come here?” Fay asks her small and quieted companion, whose ears twitch, and whose eyes gleam under the edge of his hood.

“Leave the temple, rarely, do I.” Yoda replies.

“That isn’t what I asked, grandpadawan.” Fay replies. “Do you ever come _here_, to the world beneath your feet?”

Fay has long been away from the Temples. She remembers them, but sometimes she forgets what it was like to actually _live_ in them. She rarely interacted with other jedi in her travels – she spent most of her time going where other jedi did not go, after all, way out there in the far reaches. So those few she did run into tended to be either wanderers like herself, or Watchmen.

Fay liked Watchmen. These sheltered, temple-raised Jedi dropped into foreign systems and given the task of protecting them, guiding them, helping them. Those were the jedi who never quite felt settled, in a Temple, never quite belonged. But then they took on these worlds, these far flung systems, and they _took them on_. They learned their peoples, their cultures, they immersed themselves, turning a post into an adopted home. They forgot, most of them, what it was to be _detached_.

Detachment, Fay felt, was the failing of Temple Jedi.

Not in its antithesis to attachment – to greed and envy and fear – but in it’s far subtler, more insidious form – as a lack of connection.

These Jedi in the Temple above them, they would fling themselves at the galaxy, save distant worlds and gladly ingratiate themselves to far-away civilizations, and yet be complete strangers to the people living right next door.

Or beneath them, as it happened to be.

“Many years, has it been.” Yoda replies.

“Can’t you feel them?” Fay asks, her voice half sad and half protesting. “Can’t you hear them?”

To Fay, the Force like rain, a thousand pleading whispers pressing cold against her skin. Hunger. Fear. Anger. Weariness. _Help-help-please-won’t-someone-help-me_?

Yoda bows his head, and Fay can feel him too; Shame. Uncertainty. Helplessness.

He felt small against the vastness of the world.

She flicks his ear. “Stop wallowing, you grumpy child.” Fay scolds teasingly, an ache in her chest that he is learning an old lesson all over again – one he had perhaps thought he had mastered. “We can only do what we _can_ do, padawan of my padawan. Perhaps it isn’t what we think we _should_ be able to do, perhaps it isn’t, in the end, _enough_. But it is something, and that is better than nothing.”

Fay sighs, stepping over to the edge of the platform they were walking along, and sitting down on the precipice of the sheer, miles deep drop. A metallic, lukewarm breeze tugs at her hood and her hair, and a strange morph of sound drifts up from all the levels still below them. “We don’t always get to win our battles. That doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be fought.”

Yoda ambles over and settles himself beside her.

“Fighting, the Jedi were not meant for.” Yoda says quietly.

Fay laughs, and it’s a tired sound. She knew that. She knew that better than he did, with his weary bones and clouding eyes and wrinkled, arthritic hands. She knew that because she had fought. She had gone to war. She had won, and it had cost her more than she could bear.

Her loss had been so vast and deep and scarring that she had spent nearly two centuries after the Fall of Ossus, after the last great Sith war, hiding away on some island on some forgotten moon trying to recover, or disappear, and eventually learning to reconcile herself. She had set aside her lightsaber, and she had never picked it up again, and she had gone back out into the galaxy, to do as Jedi were meant to do.

“We don’t fight because we are meant to do it.” Fay says. “We fight because someone has to. But not all wars are won with a blade, Little Yoda. Not all battles are fought in sweat and durasteel.” She reaches over, laying a palm across hi weathered green head. “Some are fought here.” She lowers her hand to his tiny chest, and his warbling heart that always seemed too big for his body, pounding away under too-pliable bone. “And won here. And those are the ones that often matter far more.”

He hums, half thoughtful and half agreeing, and Fay remembers his padawan years, when that was his evasive reply to every tricky subject, often convincing the unwary listener that he had _ideas_ and _plans_ and that _everything would be fine_.

It used to drive his master mad, and all the more so because it so often worked, that bluff.

But Fay is no unwary listener, and she has spent long enough healing her own heart to know that she cannot convince him to forgive himself. He must do that for himself.

But she can, at least, convince him to try.

“Reach out.” Fay instructs, settling herself and letting her presence unfurl, like sunshine against the rain, burnishing something chill and dull into a spark of bright reflection.

There are things that cannot be changed, cannot be combated; she has nothing with which she can feed them, she has no shelter to offer them, no medicine to ease their illnesses or seal their wounds.

Many see the Order as this towering organization of resources, and find themselves so surprised when Jedi come to them with little but the clothes on their back, and a single weapon with which to guard them. There are many they can feed, can shelter, can heal, but there are always so many more they simply cannot.

But that does not mean they cannot still help, even empty-handed, a Jedi is never without something to offer.

Perhaps it may not seem like much – hardly anything, even – but most don’t need much. They just need _something_. With a single thread of hope, there is little a person cannot do. And that is all they need to do it – just hope.

Fay has seen empires fall, worlds bloom their first flower, chains broken, stars burned out, babies born. She had seen entire civilization wiped from existence, and small, pervasive traditions that just do not die, passed from one people to another like spit in the eyes of fate, of death, of the forgetfulness of time.

So Fay has hope. Hope enough for all the galaxy, and that, that she can give them.

Beside her, with the slow yawning grace – lack thereof – of a turtle churning its way out of the muck, Yoda also reaches out.

And discovers that he has it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Alright, my week has steadily gotten better, I am training two new people at work, but it is going well, so... kudos to me.
> 
> You all have been absolutely amazing, and I appreciate it.


	27. Chapter 27

“You seem much recovered.”

Trip tenses, in the middle of very carefully painting a glaze on a delicate cake, and wonders who let Master Naasade into the kitchens.

“Well enough to do my job, which I am grateful for.” Third Brother replies, tactfully neutral, and pretends to busy himself with his work, as if unbothered by Naasade’s presence.

Bola glances at them from a different counter, where she is carefully washing and cutting fruit. She was still a little pale, but submersion in a bacta tank had done wonders for her head injury. Of the three, only Jashmir was still in medical, and had been given leave to go directly to his family afterwards, in light of the harrowing incident.

“Your work.” Naasade repeats pleasantly, and strides slowly around the counter, respectfully keeping his fingers away from any surfaces, tucked together in his sleeves. Trip gets no sense of warning from the Force, but he can’t help but feel a prickly of unease that the man could be hiding a weapon there. Naasade studies the cake for a moment, which is delicately balanced on it’s display. “You’re very good at it.”

_Not good enough_. Trip thinks bitterly, finding his eyes fixed on the other jedi in spite of himself. Naasade glances up, catches his look, lifts a brow.

“Good enough that such a… small task should be well below your abilities.” Naasade says, head titling slightly.

“No one is above the small tasks.” Trip replies.

“Hm.” Naasade hums, nodding a little. “But you should be.” He remarks, a withdraws a hand from his sleeve, running his fingers along the edges of his beard. “In fact, I rather think you are.” He taps his chin. “So it’s not such a small, task, is it?”

Third Brother clenches his jaw. “Bail Organa is an important man.” He says quietly, knowing what the other Jedi was fishing for. Something hard and heavy settles against his spine as he says the words, because a Shadow never tells, but Naasade….

Naasade is something Trip doesn’t understand. Something he doesn’t feel prepared for.

_I’m scared_, the Third of Shadows realizes, acknowledging what that hard, heavy feeling is.

Scared of one of his own.

_Tap_. _Tap_. _Tap_.

The lightest brush against his shields, asking to be let in – and isn’t that laughable? As if Naasade couldn’t just slide right in-

There is a difference between caution and paranoia, he reminds himself.

And there are also _manners_.

Trip steadies himself, grabs a spoon from a rack, swirls it in the honey glaze, and pops it in his mouth. The sweetness is a comfort. He gives the other jedi a short look, and softens his guard.

_‘Leave Bail Organa alone, Shadow. And out of our business’_. Naasade warns, not threateningly, but with the cool, hard pressure of absolute certainty. ‘_He’s a good man, and you’ll put him in danger’_.

Trip shivers, and a moment later his skin prickles from head to toe as he realizes something.

Naasade doesn’t _know_. About Alderaan. About what they have involved themselves in.

And that’s…._interesting_.

~*~

“Are we treating the Senate Dome as enemy terrain, now?” Master Qui-Gon inwuires dryly. Knight Gallia gives him a peevish look.

“You say that as if you have not always treated the Senate Dome as enemy terrain, Master Jinn.”

“I’ll have you know I have friends in politics.” The older jedi sniffs.

“_A_ friend. One.” Knight Gallia points out.

“He _is_ the current Chancellor.”

“That doesn’t make him count as more than one, Master Jinn.” Knight Gallia replies sternly, and Sian shares a grin with Siri, who rolls her eyes.

Master Qui-Gon grumbles, and Sian quickens her step and jostles him with an elbow. He looks down with a lifted brow, and she offers him a gleeful look. He relaxes, just a little, but Sian counts it as a win. She catches Knight Gallia glancing between their interaction with quiet approval, and feels a glow of warmth burn in her chest for it.

“Are you going to tell me what exactly it is we’re doing?”

“Are you going to complain about the chance to take your padawan out of Temple?” Knight Gallia retorts.

“Knight Gallia.” Sian’s master sighs exasperatedly.

“Reconnaissance.” Knight Gallia replies curtly.

“In the Senate? On whom?” Master Qui-Gon inquires, voice going lower and more gravelly with seriousness. Sian adored her master, but he did tend to nitpick when he was bored. It was best to get his interest in something before he started devolving into petty complaints. Hadn’t Knight Gallia figured that out yet?

“On _what_.” Knight Gallia corrects vaguely, and her gaze glances down to Sian, which stops the young devaronian from rolling her eyes. It’s okay – Siri does it for her. “Your padawan knows what we’re looking for.” She adds.

Master Qui-Gon looks down at the top of Sian’s head with a small, pinched frown. Sian smiles reassuringly at him, but offers no comment as they step into the shadow of the Senate Dome. To her right, Siri shivers a little, and Sian runs her tongue across the inside of her teeth, pressing against her sharper fangs, out of habit while she struggles to quell and release the protective anger that bristles through her bones.

Sian knows what it feels like, to be inside the ring of coral tiles. But she only had to do it twice, for practice.

Sian _hates_ it.

Siri says the Senate Dome feels almost exactly like that, and yet she goes inside it almost every day.

Sian reaches into her pocket, where one of the game tiles is stashed for comparison. Her hand prickles, numb and staticky, when she wraps her fingers around it, and she grounds herself, brushing off unease and anger and focusing, really focusing, not on what it _does_, but how it _feels_.

Somehow, somewhere, someone has gotten this material, or a like material, into the Senate Dome, in an effort to thwart the Jedi in the very heart of the Galactic Republic.

And Sian _is_ going to find it.

~*~

Bail can hear the faint echo of his boots clipping against the floor, coming off the polished walls, and he knows Breha can recognize his stride because he has no more slipped open the carved door to her public office than she is asking him;

“Your junior aide, Adjunct Retrac, she’s from the Castle Lands, is she not?”

Bail slips inside the room, nodding to the Royal Security Officer stationed just inside, and to Breha’s aide, sitting behind a data display in the corner. “I believe so.” He replies.

Breha hums thoughtfully, pulling up a new document on her own grand data display, the holo-docs casting silvery-blue light on her face, creating water-like shadows in the velvet creases of her royal blue gown. “Give her leave to see for her family, if necessary.”

“What’s happened?”

“Spring storms.” Breha sighs, fingers prodding her temples. “The flooding has been particularly harsh this year, and the minister is being difficult over jurisdictional resources.”

Bail sweeps across the room and around the desk, taking her hands lightly in his before trading their places, massaging her temples. Breha sighs lightly and leans back. She looks up, her eyes having been fixated on the displays, and smiles in relief just to see him. “Hello dear.”

“Hello love.” Bail smiles in turn, leans down, and presses a gentle kiss to her brow, her hair tickling his face.

The Security Officer coughs lightly, reminding them that this is her public office, and that they are not yet officially engaged.

Or he is just uncomfortable. This is his Queen, after all.

“If I recall correctly, this isn’t his first time obfuscating matters in that region.” Bail comments quietly, drawing back and letting his hands drift down to Breha’s shoulders. She idly lays one of hers over one of his, and continues working.

“It isn’t.” Breha replies. “He’s getting bolder about it too.”

“So overrule him.” Bail suggests.

Breha’s lips twitch with faint displeasure. She dislikes directly overruling her council and the authorities of parliament. She prefers to convince them to see things her way. It’s more tedious, to be sure, but also more politically favorable.

“He’s displeased that his family does not have a stronger presence at my court.” Breha remarks.

“If he thinks you can be bullied into political favors, he hasn’t been paying attention.” Bail smiles wryly.

“Or he has been.” Breha says critically. “He may not ply himself to me, but he’s made great strides to endear himself to certain members of House Antilles.”

Bail stills, his thumbs having been brushing against her neck, pausing on her pulse point.

“Members of House Antilles who might have implied that circumstances might change in his favor?” Bail inquires, voice low and less of warmth. Bail can still taste it in the back of his mouth, a sense-memory of the inside of that safety compartment. The burning acridity of the chemicals in the air, the blood, sweat, sickness. “May I?” He inquires, turning a hand towards Breha’s wine glass. She lfits the cup to him, and he takes a sip. It’s sharp and tart, and mostly does the job of taking that sense-memory away.

Bail had been the intended target, but it is the deaths of those in his service, and the grievous harm done to them, that angers him far more deeply. Breha squeezes his hand on her shoulder, and he tangles their fingers together, gripping hard for a moment. He takes another sip and swallows, and sets the glass back down.

“Have you…” Bail pauses. “Do you know what you want to do? This is your family Breha, we can have it settled quietly.”

“My House and my family are not one in the same, and Antilles is neither at the moment.” Breha replies in cold tones. “I won’t forgive them for this, Bail. If they could lower themselves to conduct such dishonor, they will humble themselves to face their shame openly. I will not have this handled quietly.”

Bail leans forward, bracketing her with his body, and gently cups his queens chin in one hand.

“Family is not so easily separated from Lineage and House. You know this, love.” He says with understanding, with empathy and care. “They are still the ones who raised you, who loved you, whom you’ve grown up with and watched grow up in turn. Antilles is and always will be a part of you, Breha. Whether they deserve such a treasure or not.”

Breha looks up at him with dark eyes and sighs. “Why do you have to be so sweet?”

Bail smirks dryly and bends, pressing a kiss to the shell of her ear. “Because you love me.” He whispers warmly, and delights to feel her shiver a little.

The security officer coughs again.

Loudly.


	28. Chapter 28

“I know a padawan who is very fond of this color, but I am not certain it suits me.” Ben remarks, trying not to twitch as the Alderaani tailor fastens pins uncomfortably close to his neck.

“You look lovely.” Bail remarks dryly, a smirk teasing on his lips.

Ben twitches a brow. “Had I known you were going to order me a suit, perhaps I wouldn’t have brought my silks.” Ben adds, eyeing his reflection. Alderaani fashion had a much closer fit than traditional Jedi robes, the clothes more restrictive, but then, functionality was not the intent of this particular garment. Aesthetic was, and Ben was obligated to indulge his friends. It was their engagement, after all.

A white shirt, a high-collared pink vest, stately grey pants, a black belt, black boots, and a stately grey half-cape. A much simpler, more concise match to Bail’s own wardrobe for the ceremony. Bail’s grey layers were gilded with silver, a subtle pattern of varying shades of pinks worked into his vest, and where Ben’s half-cape was clasped with a simple silver pin, Bail had a royal blue sapphire, and a full state cape, the hem brushing the floor.

“I was under the impression that those were not worn for the way they looked.” Bail lifts a brow, and Ben tips his head, conceding the point.

“Well, in this case they were.” Ben comments, working a finger between his neck and the tight collar, earning an irritated huff from the tailor. Ben is not unused to a tight collar, but at least trooper blacks had a flexible give to them, unlike the alderaani satin. “Will Breha be in bronze, then?”

Bail grimaces in elf-depreciation. “After much argument, yes. Not her dress – she’s decided on Royal Blue, but her mother’s Antilles bronze jewelry is a family heirloom, and Breha’s conceded to wear it.”

Ben nods. “I hope your efforts on that front were not unrewarded?”

“Oh, no, her mother’s opinion of me has improved drastically.” Bail snorts lightly. “So I suppose there is that.”

“And what about…the other matter?” Ben inquires. “Has Breha made her decision?”

“She has. She won’t tell me which of her relatives plotted to have me assassinated, but she has identified them and made her decision on how to deal with them. After the ceremony.”

“Have they been arrested at least?” Ben asks.

“No.” Bail smiles chipperly, and Ben frowns. “Breha would very much like for them to see her happily bound to me first, and then have them dealt with. In the meantime, I imagine she’s increased the amount of Service Agents assigned to my detail. And I have you.”

“I’m flattered.” Ben’s lips twist up at the corner, and he tilts a light bow, for which Bail chuckles. “I suppose waiting until after puts less of a pall over the celebration.”

“That it does.”

“Aside from fearing for your life.”

“My life is in good hands.”

~*~

“Woah, hey, are you okay?” Obi-Wan spots his friends across the corridor intersection and trots over. Sian offers a tired smile and a half-hearted wave, and Siri just stubbornly lifts her chin, giving him a skeptical look for the implication of doubt that she was less than her best. Obi-Wan gives her a short look back for it, but can’t help but be concerned. They look run ragged.

Taria trails along after him, curiosity peaked, though she was due to meet up shortly with her master and brother padawan.

“We’ve been in the Senate Dome.” Sian says, and she sways a little where she stands.

“Again?” Obi-Wan asks, shaking his head lightly. “You should pull shorter hours. Rest and recovery is important.” He wasn’t part of whatever investigation in the Senate Dome Knight Gallia was heading, but Sian and Siri had spoke to him some about the coral, and its effects, and what happened to Jedi in the Senate. They’d explained Knight Gallia’s defense mechanism briefly, to him and their other friends, but hardly any of them had time to actually pause and work on it together, and even the explanation was rudimentary without an actual demonstration.

“Says _Obi-Wan Kenobi_.” Siri says snidely, crossing her arms.

Obi-Wan open his mouth to protest, and closes it again when he grudgingly acknowledges that she has a point.

“What’s so bad about the Senate Dome?” Taria inquires, and all three of them glance askance at her in a way that is probably not sanguine at all.

“It’s exhausting.” Siri says flatly.

“Aren’t politics always?” Taria snorts. “Makes me glad I live on Corellia.”

“Not like this.” Obi-Wan mutters, and there is an intrigued gleam in her golden eyes. Obi-Wan breaks gazes with Taria to give his friends another once over, and holds out his hands. Sian lifts a brow but drops her palm in his. Siri moves more slowly, warily, but eventually concedes with a huff and smacks their palms together.

Obi-Wan breathes in deep, and he can almost see how they are… diminished, in the Force, how that fatigue seems to cling to them. His brows furrow, and both girls twitch when he sort of…glides around the edges of their presence, cautiously noticing how their connection to the Force almost seems…bruised.

Obi-Wan’s just starting to get a sense of it, to mentally map the feebly glowing threads that connect them to the universe, to fan that fire with his own, when Siri yanks her hand out of his and shoves him.

“Hey-“

“You idiot!” Siri snaps. “Didn’t you nearly kill yourself doing that with Quinlan?”

“Doing what?” Taria asks, a tad sharp.

“That was different, and I didn’t know what I was doing that time.” Obi-Wan snaps back.

“Oh, and now you do?”

“I don’t sleep through my healing classes, Siri.”

“You don’t sleep at all.” The blonde mutters, eyeing him sharply up and down. “You actually know what you’re doing?” She asks warily. “Without hurting yourself.”

Just to infuriate her, Obi-Wan shrugs.

Siri smacks her palm back into his, hard enough to sting with a little extra _Force_ behind it. Obi-Wan shoots her a short look and Sian wrinkles her nose at the both of them, squeezing Obi-Wan’s fingers. He wiggles them in her grip, and the devaronian girl smiles a little.

Obi-Wan gives them just enough that they’re a little less grey in the face, and little more steady in the Force, but not so much as to make himself woozy. Sian gives him a hug once he lets go of her hand, and Siri nods appreciatively, offering a small, genuine smile.

“Uh…okay.” Taria remarks, confused.

“That face you’re making?” Siri comments to her, her smile turning sharp. “Get used to it.”

“What?”

“That’s the ‘Obi-Wan Kenobi does insane things for good reasons face’.”

“That’s not a thing.” Obi-Wan retorts, and then, to Taria; “That’s not a thing.”

“It kind of is.” Sian teases, squeezing his shoulders. “You’re not like the rest of us, Obi-Wan.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“It’s a _good_ thing, you idiot.” Siri rolls her eyes, elbowing him in the ribs.

“Why are we friends again?” Obi-Wan questions sarcastically.


	29. Chapter 29

It was… a conundrum.

Trip had been assigned this mission to keep an eye on Ben Naasade while the man was away from the Temple, and to glean what he could _not_ of where the Alderaani Investigation was at – the Shadows would respect Alderaan’s decision to conduct themselves as separate and unaffiliated entities – but where it began, and why.

And the natural assumption, the point in time they had been trying to find, was that Naasade had put them on to something, something he shared with Bail Organa that he chose not to share with the Order.

But if Master Naasade did not _know_ that Alderaan _was_ conducting an investigation…

Then what had driven Alderaan in to this? What was Alderaan’s interest? What had they discovered that the Jedi Order and their Shadows could not find?

Third Brother did not believe that the Force made him in any way inherently superior to those who could not utilize it as he could, but it was basic understanding to know that the Force enhanced an individual in ways that could not simply be disregarded.

So it was both refreshing and galling to be outdone by non-sensitives. And it made him… wistful, in a way. If they were _that good_ without the Force, imagine them with it.

“For the love of my ancestors, _stop_ putting syrup in my caf.”

Trip grins, setting down his inventory datapad and turning to lean against the counter he had been slouching over as he tallied the new portions and servings allotment, which changed almost hourly, in spite of the fact of the engagement ceremony being _tomorrow_. Trip had posed more than once as a caterer, or a baker, or waitstaff, but those roles tended to involve politicians and businessmen – not royalty. He appreciated Alderaan’s traditions, their taste and attention to detail, but by the Force was this a level of manic behind the scenes preparation he’d be glad not to repeat.

“You could use a little sweetening up.” Trip teases the other spy, just to earn that flat, sour look. Sometimes, he thinks Lachas Bey tries _too_ hard to be disapproving, and it just tickles the Shadow immensely.

“Watching me spit out my caf is not conducive to earning the respect of my fellow staff.”

“Did you really?” Trip inquires, leaning back on his elbows and stretching his back a little. He really shouldn’t have been hunched over how he had been, but to be fair, the numbers had been starting to blur on the datapad, and it wasn’t even midday. “I’d expect you to have more discipline than that.”

Lachas gives him a short, dark look. “Well, I didn’t spit this time. I’m basically expecting it at this point.”

“Aw, that takes the fun out of it.”

“Look,” Lachas sighs, a frustrated huff of sound. “I am sincerely asking you to stop. I am exhausted, and I literally cannot bring myself to swallow it no matter how much I need the caffeine.”

Trip sighs, all the fun having gone out of it, and nods. “C’mon.” He shrugs, and pushes off the counter, making his way through trays of sample tarts and pastries, past the ovens which made his skin sticky no matter how many temp regulators they had running, and towards the espresso bar. “How about a dark chocolate espresso with sour milk? _No_ sweetener.” Trip promises.

“_Thank_ you.” Lachas nods.

“Heathen.” Trip grumbles, lip curling at the mere idea of a drink that bitter, and Lachas’ lips quirk up at the edge unexpectedly. He really _must_ be tired if he’s letting a smile slip through.

“What drew Alderaan into it?” Trip asks outright, a dangerous gamble if ever there was one, but one he felt was worth taking. His words are vague enough to anyone listening, but Lachas knows immediately what he means.

“I was under the impression you were here on other business.” Lachas replies evasively, as the espresso machine hisses with steam.

“Are men like us ever _really_ on other business?” Third Brother inquires, starting a drink for himself as well – something infinitely more sweet than the swill Lachas insists upon.

Lachas’ thin lipped grimace is quite the poignant reply to that.

“Alderaan’s intentions are honest.” Lachas equivocates. Trip tries not to get irritated – he’s a spy himself, he’s well aware of what his own kind are like. Equivocation, evasiveness, half-truths and careful implications.

“It’s not your intentions I’m questioning, it’s your _interests_.” Trip retorts, handing Lachas his thermos. Ugh, it even _smells_ bitter, and Lachas looks ridiculously pleased about it.

Lachas looks up at him, his dark eyes dryly amused. “You understand less about Alderaan than I thought you did.”

His tone is light, but Trip still feels the slight inherent in those words, and bristles. Lachas’ dark brow twitches slightly, and he takes a sip of his drink, mulling over it for a minute. “It’s a little sad, really, the Jedi being what they _should_ be.” His tone is melancholy, and now Trip feels like he has somehow _disappointed_ his fellow spy. “Alderaan has no personal interests in this affair. Nothing at stake of being lost, nothing gambling on being won. We have simply found something _wrong_, and we intend to see it made right.”

“Just like that?” Trip inquires skeptically, though he wants to believe Lachas – think a part of him even might. He has seen nothing in Bail Organa’s character that suggests the man needs any more reason than that to get involved, to do something, and by most accounts, Queen Breha is of much the same attitude as her lover, if of a harder disposition. But two people did not a government make, or an organization, or even a policy.

Then the question he has just asked strikes him, and Trip understands why that shadow crosses Lachas’ gaze – here is a jedi, doubting that anyone could be so simply _good_.

“To do nothing in the face of evil is not a neutral act.” Lachas says simply, glancing away. His lips quirk. “And besides, Alderaan has never been _neutral_.”

Trip huffs a smile at that and nods agreement with that. No, Alderaan has never been neutral.

“You don’t need our reasons, and it is better if you don’t know them.” Lachas says with frank honesty. “The enemy is elusive and cunning – it’s best not to come at them from the same side.”

“Not all information need be actionable.” Trip points out. “Sometimes, it is just information.”

“I’m still not telling you.”

Trip sighs.

“But do tell me this,” Lachas adds sourly.

“What?”

“ Am I awake right now?”

Third Brother glances around. “Uh…in so far as I am aware?”

Lachas gives him a dour look. “Thank you. I feel so reassured.”

“Drink your nasty caf espresso.” Trip snorts, taking his own thermos. “And get out of the kitchens, I’ve got work to do.”

“Like I don’t?”

“You’re bothering me.”

“You kept ruining my caf!”

~*~

Taria lopes down the corridor, counting columns as the shadows they cast shift past her, and mulling over what she’d understood of watching Obi-Wan interact with his friends.

There was something more to the Senate, from what her master had heard, but the trio had kept brushing it off, and Taria hadn’t wanted to press too hard.

But what they wouldn’t say said something too – there was something wrong in the Senate. Not just corrupt, but something…. _harmful_, to Jedi. Taria may not know exactly what Obi-Wan just did, but she recognized a healing technique when she saw one, and Force Healing? That wasn’t something you used when you could just as easily fix someone by having them take a nap.

Padawan’s Tachi and Jeisel hadn’t been tired, they’d been… it had almost seemed like they’d been _drained_.

Which didn’t make any sense. How much did you have to use the Force while in the Senate Dome? As a _Padawan Learner_?

And what had Padawan Tachi meant, about Quinlan Vos?

Taria still didn’t understand the situation with the Fallen padawan, and it made her uneasy, and her master uneasy. But Padawan Vos had been kept out of sight and out of mind of the Congregation.

What Taria really didn’t understand, however, was Obi-Wan Kenobi.

She liked him. She respected him. She thought he was attractive and sweet and he was a pretty quick study on kissing.

But he didn’t understand him, not in the ways she believed counted.

It was just… he was her age. A padawan with a late start. A little awkward and a lot brave.

And in any way she could imagine, he seemed to outstrip her completely.

In comparison to her peers, Taria had always been deemed outgoing, driven, ambitious, even.

And if _she_ was those things…. She didn’t know what to call Obi-Wan Kenobi. Taria Damsin pushed her limits – and apparently Obi-Wan Kenobi simply leapt off the edges of his, and learned how to fly. And he didn’t stop. Watching him teach that class to Knights, watching him open and dive into debates with venerable Master’s, cradling his lightsaber in the palm of her hand and having heard the stories about him-

It wasn’t just passion that drove him. She didn’t believe that.

_It wasn’t an accident_, he’d said.

She’d thought, when he said that, that maybe it had been a fellow Jedi who’d done that to his saber, someone jealous and cruel, or petty and ignorant of how much damage it would do.

But there was a _look_ in his eyes, sometimes, when he argued in front of enough Master’s to make her throat close up to even think about being seen, when he corrected full-fledged Knights on the floor of the Salle’s, when he studied his friends for harm, when he paused, sometimes, caught in a thought and careless of anyone looking, and traced that scar on his face, or rubbed at his bad wrist.

Taria and her Master were here to find secrets, to figure out what was really going on, and Taria believed that Obi-Wan Kenobi stood somewhere near the heart of the truths they were searching for.

And the closer she got to him, the more she felt like knowing the truth might be a very dangerous thing.

And damn the Dark Side if that didn’t even dampen her curiosity one iota.

A shadow moves abruptly into her path, and Taria gasps, nearly tripping herself before she trips right into the silver-eyed master who seemed to have melted out of the walls.

“M-master!” Taria gasps, one hand on her heart which hammered like a drum under her rib for the scare. “I didn’t see you there. My apologies.”

“You saw me when I wanted you to see me.” The master replies, a proud-faced Togruta with a necklace torc of fangs around her neck. “Though you were doing an excellent job of going unseen yourself.”

Taria blinks, catching her breath, and nods slowly. “Thank you, Master. I was practicing. Padawan Taria Damsin, of Corellia.”

“Master Shaak Ti, of Coruscant.” The master returns her greeting, and Taria places her with that introduction. She was Padawan Skywalker’s Master. “Are you enjoying your trip to our temple?” She inquires, talking in the careful way Togruta did when they were doing their best not to flash their sharper teeth. Taria was too inured to her master’s needle-like smile to be bothered, but the gesture was polite.

“I am.” Taria replies, just as polite. “It’s very different from home, and there is much to learn.”

“And you are learning much.” The Master counters, a gleam in her silver gaze. Taria smiles quizzically, and feels her stomach clench. She isn’t doing anything wrong, not really, but it’s never exactly _good_ to be caught snooping around and conducting illicit investigations.

“I’m trying to.” Taria replies neutrally, not actually certain if she’s been caught out or not.

“I’ve noticed.” The togruta replies. Taria looks up into her gaze, and there is a light light of mischief there. “These are difficult times for the Jedi, and we’ve not seen a gathering like this…well, at least not in my lifetime. We are _all_ watching each other, little one. You’d do well to remember that.”

“Um…”

“If you continue down this path, of course.” The master concedes, continuing in spite of Taria’s lack of participation in the conversation. “Which I recommend you do. You show great promise for this line of work.”

“This line of work?” Taria perks up, earning a smile that shows a flash of fang and a lifted brow telling her that her naïve act is working about as well as it ever does. Taria looks down, sheepish. “Thank you, Master Ti.”

“Thank me after your knighting.” The shili huntress replies, humming low in her montrals. “I wouldn’t mind inviting you over for a cup of tea. I have a special blend that was passed down to me, though not all find it to their taste."

Taria feels chills spread from head to toe, and a whisper of promise in the Force.

_Did she just_….

Jedi Shadows were all whispers and rumors and idle gossip, but there were some things that meant something, some things all Jedi – or, at least, all Jedi who started to show _potential_ in the right directions – were taught to recognize.

“I’d be honored, Master Ti.” Taria says calmly, amazed she isn’t stammering right now, for all that her pulse it hammering in her veins.

“The honor would be mine,” The togruta Master tips her montrals slightly. “If you make that choice.”

Taria is wide eyes and speechless, and earns herself another indulgent, amused look. The master looks away, down the corridro, giving her the space to compose herself.

“If you are going to be his friend, be his friend.” Master Ti tells her, voice dropping low and cool. “But stop prying at Obi-Wan Kenobi, and his Master. If you aren’t subtle enough for me, you aren’t subtle enough for Ben Naasade, and if you aren’t subtle enough for him, then you are a danger to yourself and everyone around you if you somehow manage to get close to the answers you seek.”

Taria reels a little, tensing up in protest or anger, but mostly just shocked. The words are spoken kindly, but they have all the weight and nuance to them of a warning.

Master Ti raises a quelling hand before she can open her mouth, and Taria grinds her back teeth, but tries to settle herself.

Her master is constantly reminding her to learn when to stop pushing.

“So Master Naasade is involved? In all of this?” Taria blurts out anyways, not quite able to crush the impulse. Her master suspected, but all the suspicion in the world wasn’t the same as simply knowing, as having it _confirmed_.

The togruta trills a soft sigh.

“Tell your master this, Padawan Damsin. Master Naasade is the first line of defense, and perhaps the last and only warning we have in a conflict we thought we had won a very long time ago. Everything we are doing now, it is not _because_ of him. He is not the _cause_, he is only… a symptom. A warning sign. Because we were wrong.”

Taria doesn’t get it, and her irritation must show through when she relays the cryptic little riddle on to her master, because she is quietly reminded that perhaps she should meditate on her _attitude_ if she cannot keep her personal pride out of her impersonal duties.

But Master Mierme must get it, after mulling it over, because she is sitting quietly over tea while Taria grudgingly takes to the meditation mat, trying to blot out everything but the rhythmic, familiar sound of Rudaban whittling away at some piece of wax he’d gotten somewhere, and the next thing Taria knows is the sharp and flinching sound of percaline shattering on stone.

“Master?”

The kalleran’s green eyes are wide open, the lobe around her neck taught, and she doesn’t even seem to notice the cup that slipped from her hand.

~ _Is Teacher unwell_? ~ Rudaban signs worriedly.

“I don’t know.” Taria says hurriedly. “Master?”

Master Mierme blinks, takes in her two startled, uncertain padawans, and sighs shakily.

And she is not a woman who has ever been easily shaken.

Taria shares an uneasy glance with Rudaban.

“Master… what is it?”


	30. Chapter 30

Obi-Wan jerks out of bed and half into a pair of pants in a sharp jolt of panicked _oh Force I’m late-_! Before he registers the thing that had _actually_ woken him as his comm. He finishes fastening his trousers, heedless of the haphazard way his sleep shirt is caught in them, and answers the call, wondering who is calling him this _early_.

“_Good Morning Obi-…wan_.” Queen Breha trails off amusedly, looking every inch a vision of regal divinity. Obi-Wan can feel his ears redden, and hastily tries to straighten his shirt and smooth his hair into order. “_My apologies, did I wake you_?”

“There’s hardly a need to apologize.” Obi-Wan says. “I dare imagine few have the sheer delight of being woken by a Queen, let alone one so lovely.”

“_Charming_.” Breha huffs a small laugh, and the teenager grins.

“_I made an effort_.” He replies. “_It was wo-rth it_.” His voice cracks, and he tries really hard not to wince. He’s going to have to get over that reaction if he ever wants the embarrassment to fade. “_Truly, though, I am delighted. The ceremony is today, isn’t it_?”

“_It is_.” Breha’s smile stays small, her expressions often held in reserve, but her eyes are bright even through holo, aglow with happiness and triumph and a little bit of nerves. “_Bail has had a lot of catching up to do and his attendants have relayed the message that it would be appreciated if I refrained from…distracting him_.” She takes a breathe and sighs. “_And it is always best to be courteous with one’s attendants_.”

“Ah.” Obi-Wan nods in sympathy, feeling his grin tug. “You aren’t nervous, are you?” He doesn’t know her very well, but nervousness is not a trait he can quite connect with the Queen of Alderaan.

“_Excited and a little stressed_.” Breha admits. “_But never nervous. Not about Bail_.”

Obi-Wan could laugh for the sheer warmth of the _sweetness_ of that declaration, but refrains, and instead moves to sink back down on his bed, into the warmth of his covers, and leans against the wall. “I _am_ sorry I couldn’t be there.” Obi-Wan says truthfully.

“_I of all people understand ones call to duty, Obi-Wan_.” Breha muses. “_But perhaps we’ll have more luck regarding my actual wedding_?”

“I can only ho-pe.” Obi-Wan nods, making no promises he could not keep, and fiddles with his padawan braid - which could do to be redone, he notes. “Although…” He says thoughtfully, thinking that if Breha wasn’t calling him to let loose a few nerves, then – what had she said? She needed to not be distracting Bail? – that probably meant she could do with a distraction herself.

Obi-Wan knew what that felt like – not about getting engaged to be married, but to be on the edge of something, stuck in that moment of just _waiting_ for it to actually _happen_.

“I don’t know as much about Alderaani traditions as I should. Could you describe what the ceremony is like for me?”

Breha’s soft exhale is all glad relief, before her composure settles into a more…._queenly_ disposition, and she glances aside, as if looking out the window.

“_I certainly can_.” Her lips quirk faintly. “_To start, let me explain that there is great importance in the meaning of flowers_…”

Obi-Wan settles himself, and lets her paint a world in the picture of his mind’s eye.

~*~

Benches wreathed in flowers encircled a dias in the center of the round courtyard. Beyond the railing at the edge of the courtyard, the lake gleamed and glittered, reflecting a bright sky banded with whispy clouds, and above them, beyond the gleaming spires of the capitol, the sharp peaks and blue-veined glaciers swept up and away, holding back the horizon.

The air smelled of pine and lilac and honeysuckle, the decorative flowers not having much fragrance – chosen more for their beauty and symbolism. Sprays of velvet-like royal blue roses, small chocolate buds with golden hearts, a dozen shades of white from bursting blossoms to tiny star-like vines, and charming, spark-like blooms here and there of pink, scattered like fireworks.

Crystal strands shimmered overhead, strung between columns, catching natural sunlight and casting a web of gossamer reflections. A light breeze plays with the pale ribbons fluttering around the archways to the courtyard, and chimes peal playfully from the railings.

It’s beautiful in the way that Alderaan always was, somehow both stark and lovely.

“Would you mind if I interrupted your solitude?” A warm voice asks, both familiar and not. Ben lifts his chin from his knuckles, sitting upright from his rather hunched position on the edge of the last bench in the row. Bail’s father has the same faintly amused quirk to his expression that his son often bears, and Ben is heartened just to see it.

“Not at all.” Ben nods graciously.

“I am the _least_ popular man in the court today, and that is saying something.” Lord Organa remarks, adjusting his cape as he sits, his suit of an older style and longer cut than Ben’s, or Bail’s, but of a similar color scheme. “I rather need the reprieve now if I’m going to make it through the ceremony later.”

Ben snorts softly in agreement to that. The attendants had finally shooed them away so they could finish getting Bail prepared, and Ben had found the crowded halls a tad stifling himself, and sought solitude.

“Did the staff threaten to have you banished from the planet if you happened to even slightly disturb the arrangements?” Ben inquires, gesturing to the flowers and neatly marked place-settings.

Lord Organa chuckles. “A warning _I_ deserve – I tend to pick at things when my mind is occupied, and flowers are a common casualty. I’m surprised they thought _you_ deserving of the same warning, Master Jedi.”

“I tripped against a pastry cooling rack on my way out of the kitchens the other day. Knocked over some two dozen trays? The loss was unfortunate and one I have not yet been forgiven for.” Ben smiles self-depreciatively and spreads his hands in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture.

“Ah. That _is_ unfortunate.” The older man comments, and lets it rest. They sit in peaceful quiet for a few minutes, and Ben lets his eyes drift, tracing the edges of petals and the darting flares of light from crystal, and tries not to think too much about the little star-like flowers, so much like those he last saw woven into coils of dark hair and ribbons-

“Are you alright?” Lord Organa inquire softly, and Ben sucks in a breath, brushing a hand over his mouth a beard, swallowing against the sudden tightness in his chest.

“I’m glad to be here.” Ben says, non-sequitur. He takes a deeper, calmer breathe through his nose, and looks to the other man. “I was just….” He shakes his head slightly. “There were so many other beginnings I… missed. I’m glad to be here for this one.”

He hadn’t been, in his last life. Not to Bail and Breha’s engagement, he had not known them then, and not to their wedding.

And he had not been to Anakin and Padme’s either.

Lord Organa offers him a kind look. “I can sincerely say we’re all rather glad you are here for this one too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: What? What? Is that... over a thousand kudos? THERE ARE OVER A THOUSAND OF YOU READING THIS?!!!
> 
> *Happiness and hyperventilation*


	31. Chapter 31

Lachas turns his foot, feeling the barrel of the service blaster tucked in his boot press against his leg, and rubs the pad of his thumb over the edge of his dark grey belt, keeping his fingers just barely away from the stun baton cleverly hidden between the cut of his jacket and the sharp pressed lines of his trousers. He doesn’t manage the same when fussing with the cuffs of his sleeves, checking again that the slim vibroblade is still seated snugly in its sheath with a simple brush of fingers.

He looks over the crowd of guests as they are slowly ushered towards the courtyard for the ceremony, making note of those who rush and those who drag their feet and those who measure themselves _just so_ as to be perfectly in the middle.

“Fuss too much, Adjunct Bey, and all that fine tailoring will fall apart at the seams.” A warm, familiar rasp of a voice comes from his left, and Lachas reflexively clicks his heels together, shoulders squaring off a straight spine.

“Fuss too little, Lady Natoya, and I’ll miss some stain or speck of lint.” Lachas replies, feeling an ache in his ribs as he does. “I’ve already made that mistake.” He adds in bitter self-recrimination.

She steps around in front of him, black hair threaded with iron, looped in simple elegance around her head, her attendants gown a shimmer of dark blue and slate grey, with a spray of plain white flowers in her hair. Weathered, wrinkled hands reach up to adjust his collar and cape.

“Tasks such as this are meant for more than one pair of eyes, which you did not have.” She says, in the creaking remnants of a voice that once could have cut through a battlefield. “You did as best you could, and that mistake was not yours alone to make.”

“But _I_ am the one who made it.” Lachas retorts, forcing his hands to remain loose, lax, keeping his face turned low, hidden by the brim of his cap, all but anonymous to the party guests as a servant of the Royal House. “I won’t make it again.”

Senator Organa had nearly died on his watch, and others _had_ died, because Lachas had missed key details in his security evaluations, because he hadn’t been as thorough as he should have been. An Agent in charge of the Royal Groom could not be so sloppy, could not afford such slips, short staffed or not.

An iron-strong grip takes hold of his chin, like a grandmother with a particularly unfocused scion, and Lachas stiffens, staring into wizened, unimpressed dark eyes. She studies him, a far harsher evaluation than she’d given him upon his graduation from the academy, and finally nods.

“Good.” She says simply. “Then I trust I can leave you to your job, Adjunct Bey.” She casts a wry glance at the many guests. “It appears to be more than enough to be getting on with.”

“Thank you, Lady Natoya.” Lachas nods, swallowing, a stark mix of relief and shame twisting up around his ribcage. He thought he’d be fired. He _ought_ to be fired.

“For what?” The old woman questions, brows drawing together in the picture of polite confusion and disapproval, as appropriate between a ladies maid and a senatorial aide. Lchas opens his mouth, closes it, and nods. Her lips purse – pressing down a wry twist he remembers too well, no doubt. “There was some young administrative clerk wandering around earlier, Adjunct Bey. A recent addition to Senator Organa’s staff, I believe. Reign her in, would you? This is an important event, and Ms. Maja looked out of place. In need of guidance, no doubt.”

_So I get to keep my position_, Lachas thinks, _and I get back-up_.

He’s not entirely sure he deserved that much faith from the agency, given recent events, but it is unprecedentedly gratifying nonetheless, and Lachas swears to himself that he won’t prove the agencies faith in him misplaced.

“I’ll see to it.” He nods, bowing to the lady

She hums noncommittally and dismisses him with the barest rustle of skirts, continuing on her way.

Spies never were much for frivolous social customs nor lingering out of courtesy – not amongst each other, at least. When you lied for a living, even polite fictions became overbearing in an honest interaction.

~*~

“Architecture?” Bant repeats, puzzled.

“Yes?” Sian replies uncertainly. “I mean, I just thought – as an archivist’s padawan, you’d be more familiar with history, architecture-“

“I am, I just…Architecture, not archeology, right? Those are two different things, and I want to make sure we’re having the same conversation.”

Sian pauses a moment, because she wasn’t entirely certain as to the differences between archeology and architecture, and which was more fitting for her current case, but eventually nods. Her structure was still, well, in _use_, so it _probably_ fell under architecture and not archeology, millenia old or not.

“Alright.” Bant nods. “Then we want to go up a few levels.” The mon calamari girl says thoughtfully, her large silver eyes swiveling as she considers the massive stacks of the archives. “Are you looking for structures, or an architect in particular?”

“Yes.” Sian nods.

“Sian.” Bant’s eyes swivel back to her, slightly impatient, and Sian feels a little bad about interrupting the older girls research in favor of her research, but, well, she rather felt that hers, at the moment, was more important.

“I’m looking for maps of the Senate Building, and records on architectural renovations over the last century.”

Bants gills flare a little. “That is….” She deflates a little. “Sian, that information literally fills libraries. Do you have anything more specific?”

“I have a list of….” The devaronian girls pauses, trying to figure out how, exactly, to describe her list of what Knight Gallia referred to, politely, as ‘_contaminated infrastructure’_. “Of features, currently in the Senate Building, that I need more information on.”

“Oh.” Bant says, perking back up a little bit. “A research project for _Diplomacy and Decoration_? I had to do a report on the political influence of statues for that one.”

“Well, no.” Sian says. Strictly speaking, this wasn’t even her assignment. But Knight Gallia had been contemplative, and Master Qui-Gon outright shocked, both of them too tense and trying not to show it to do much more than quietly dismiss their padawans to return to their normal activities while they mulled things over.

Siri had been right on her master’s heels, the two of them having so much more to attend to, but Master Qui-Gon had turned absent, and Sian knew it could be ages before he turned his tohughts and attention outwards again, and she hadn’t been content just to run off to class and meditation as if this was all just something she could simple let _be_. She needed to _do_ something. So she was going to. “This isn’t for a class. I’m helping Knight Gallia. Remember Siri and I telling you about the anti-Force coral?”

Bant nods hesitantly.

“We went and found it.” Sian says. “In the Senate Building.”

“Where?” Bant’s gills snap shut, and her pink skin pales, save for darker patches along her nose and dorsal – the mon cala equivalent of an angry bristle.

Sian presses her tongue against her sharper teeth, grinding her jaw for a moment. It had been so hard to find, because she had been _stupid_. Too busy looking for some _thing_, some object, some pin-pointable source, to realize that she was so focused on finding a tree that she missed the whole stupid forest. There was no object, so single thing to find.

It was everywhere.

It was flecked in tile, veined in marble pillars, gilded in windows and – she performed some mild property destruction to find this out – even used in _putty_ on the piping and grit in the grout. Nothing so solid as a cage, nothing so simple as a trap, nothing so easily removed as a statue. It was just…dust and flecks and glimmers of it mixed in with everything else, like salt in water.

“It’s everywhere, Bant, in almost everything.” Sian shakes her head angrily, and then sighs, because her anger isn’t what she needs right now. All it does is cloud up her head, and skew her focus. She needs to _focus_. “And I can’t – I cant _do_ anything about it. We thought – we’d hoped, but it’s…” She shakes her head again, feeling a sudden flash of sympathy for Obi-Wan. This is what if felt like, then, to find a problem too big to solve. “It’s there. We know it’s there, and it’s no good for us.” Sian takes a breath. “But I need to find out _how_ they did it, Bant.”

“They?”

Sian shakes her head. “I don’t know. Someone working against the Jedi. I think… I think Knight Gallia knows, but… it’s not something she’s shared. Not even with my Master. Not even with _Siri_.”

“That certainly doesn’t sound good.” Bant frowns, gills opening up, flaring a little as she sighs. “But you’re right. Something like that… it had to have taken a long time, and a lot of effort. Collecting a material like that? Hiding it in renovations… the Senate Building gets a lot of renovations, but it’s all parts and pieces. They can’t just close it for remodeling, you know? So whoever did this…. We’ll find a connection. If _you_ know what to look for.”

“I know what I’m looking for.” Sian nods, voice low and determined.

“Then we’ll find it.” Bant says with clam assuredness, and Sian feel a sudden flush of relief that Bant is so ready to do this _with_ her.

“Then we’ll find it.” Sian repeats, iridescent eyes giving off a predator’s gleam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: This chapter was definitely supposed to have the engagement ceremony in there... and I... I did not get there.
> 
> The comments I have gotten have been absolutely the greatest, and you all are just.... one of the best things in my life right now. Seriously, thank you for all the awesome support and involvement, you make this fic completely worth it.


	32. Chapter 32

Ben watches two large butterflies vie for a spot on one of the hover-cams, speckled grey-blue camouflage flickering to reveal vibrant pink-copper bands as their delicate wings fluttered, and smirks a little as the hover-cam swerves and shakes in futile effort to dissuade them.

An alderaani engagement ceremony is a community affair, and as such is rather drawn out. More so, for the royal couple. There is all the necessary symbolism in the details and the décor to represent the two separate houses, and the two separate individuals, and Breha and Bail at the center, sitting side by side on the dais. They were formally announced, before all of their guests, with all of their titles and accomplishments as was public record, and then…

Then, the affair proceeded rather like a debate.

Or a trial.

The guests approached the couple as they pleased, and on the steps before the dais and all the witnesses, they may offer their blessing, or a warning, they may tell stories, ask questions, or argue about the match.

It was often this ceremony that shattered ill-made matches, and cemented well made ones, both unifying and distressing as only large family affairs _could_ be. Unfortunately, Bail, being, well, _not_ the Queen, received the brunt of the interrogations and needling questions.

Fortunately, Bail was Bail, and he always was his best when beside his wife – or future wife, as the case was. Anyone seeking to make a public fool of the young senator quickly found that cap on their own head, and all the while Breha smiled so serenely. Guests were less bold with her, though she had no shortage of cousins trying to trip the couple up with peppered and pointed questions about how well one knew the other.

The more mischeivious ones were usually reigned in by the time everyone listening started to get the impression that the couple perhaps knew each other _too_ well. Breha was self-assured and Bail wasn’t one to blush, but it was best to maintain that nothing that _might_ be considered improper or even scandalous existed about their relationship. No matter _how_ sly a few of the Antilles teenlings thought they were.

Ben, holding a place of honor as one of Bail’s witnesses, had a seat right next to the dais, alongside Bail Antilles, Alderaan’s senior senator and Bail’s mentor, and Lord Organa. Opposite them, on the other side of the dais, were Breha’s witnesses – her mother, her grandfather, and her dearest friend, a young woman Ben does not recognize, and wonders why that is.

But in another life, he reasons, he would not have met Bail and Breha for another decade. Many things can change in that amount of time, and when he looks at the young woman, he hopes her story isn’t a sad one.

Ben enjoy the musics, and the breeze off the lake, and the radiant effusive glow in the Force, burning off of Bail and Breha and soaking into him, a furnace of giddy _happiness-love-relief_ that he could very well get drunk off of, if he let himself. Breha’s composure was regal, as always, and Ben’s sense of her sank deep, well grounded but carefully measured. His sense of Bail, in comparison, was less attached but more pressurized, like Breha was the earth and Bail the sky.

They made a world up of themselves that he found comfort in, a safe, steady place to stand when everything slid and shifted, like a peak of bedrock offering sanctuary when the wind turned the dust dunes, and the desert rewrote itself around him in deadly shifts and unexpected turns.

Which makes the sudden lance of their sharp _shock-hurt-anger_ all the more jarring, and Ben has to focus to pay attention to what had just been said.

“Are you prepared to enter a union that may never provide you with children, given Breha’s medical condition?” The old woman, an Antilles of prominence by her dress and hairstyle, had asked Bail sharply, and Ben hadn’t noticed because there is little at all of malice about her, just a blunt if thick _disregard_ for the man before her, which is mild compared to how some of the guests here have felt today. There had been at least two spurned suitors and smattering of political rivals so far who had genuinely felt hatred or disgust for Bail Organa, and more than a few women who had approached Breha with bitterness and jealousy so strong Ben could _taste_ it.

But none of them had dared bring up such a topic with such cold disdain in their voice, their words intended for nothing but _harm_.

“After all, Organa is already a dying line.” The old woman continues, Queen Breha’s lips pressed into a narrow line of reserved anger, though her cheeks have paled and her hands tightened, and Bail has lost all expression completely, a look Ben has seen very rarely, as the man reels inside his own thoughts before reconnecting with his surroundings. “Failure to provide children would be a detriment to your House, would it not?”

Those around them, those who can hear them, they are too…._Alderaani_, to _stare_, but they go still, conversation stuttering out, and they are most certainly listening for all that their gazes are cast politely away.

It was public knowledge that Queen Breha had an artificial heart and lungs, but speculation on how that might affect her relationships, her potential suitors, any possible heirs…Breha was still young, quite young, and by Alderaan’s traditions, _too_ young to be having children. It has not been a consideration before, not publicly, at least.

“Bloodline is no pre-requisite for love.” Bail finally replies, coming back to himself, that amused quirk returning to his brow, but his eyes are dark and hard, his voice calm, but cooled. “I would take for granted no spouse on their decisions to bear or not bear children, for any reason, or for no reasons at all. If we are to have children, we will have children, if we are not – then we will not. We have years yet to decide, and regardless, Madame Antilles; a child need not be born of my blood to bear my name, and I would love them all the same.”

Ben remembers with vivid clarity one of those secretive trips to Alderaan, after the end of the Clone Wars. Bail had _loved_ being a father, but when Leia had been learning to walk, he had oscillated sharply between nervousness and exasperation, constantly torn between terror and bafflement at this…this tiny, fragile, fearless person who somehow became absolutely and irrevocably intrinsic to his existence, branded into his sense of self as manhood became _fatherhood_, and all his thoughts and worries shifted like a river changing course, altered forever after by big brown eyes and hiccupy laughs and the shrill shriek of ‘_papa_!’.

Bail had had no room in his life for doubts, not at the time. Not as a Father, nor a Prince of Alderaan, or as an Imperial Senator, or as the founder of the Rebellion.

But fear, fear had been inescapable. Ben had barely been a functioning human being at that point, but Bail had needed…someone. Not just anyone, but a _friend_. Leia was learning to walk, and talk, and she had been so strong. She was learning to walk, and talk, and use the Force, and Bail had realized with stuttering terror that he held both the fate of the galaxy in his hands, and the fate of one little girl, and both of them were impossible things to bear.

It had been… a sort of self-intervention, really. Ben had not counseled so much as bore witness. But Bail had needed a witness, someone to acknowledge his fears to, to understand them, and someone to whom he could vow to overcome them.

Bail Organa had never needed prophesies and divine guidance to do what needed to be done, never needed more than his own heart and his own conscience to find his way in a darker and darker universe. To do the right thing.

He had a daughter to raise, and a galaxy to save, and for him, to do one was the same as doing the other. Not because of the Skywalker blood in Leia’s veins, not because of the Sith and the Jedi and prophesies that betrayed everyone in the end, but because he was a good man, a _father_, and that was all there was to it.

“Something you’d like to share?” Bail’s father whispers, his face all tight lines as his gaze drags away from his son and the woman before the dias, catching on the smile Ben finds on his face.

Ben lifts his head a little. He does not know what the future looks like, and he is afraid that Leia Organa may never be born again, that Bail will not have the daughter he once would have raised, but he knows, deep in his bones, one utter truth that the Force does not deny.

“There is hope in the future of House Organa.” Ben says simply, gaze drawn to his friend, who is young, and angry at the moment, and in love, and does not yet know the strength of himself. “More than you know.”

But he will one day, and Ben will be honored if he gets to see it again.

Bail is riled, but Breha eases as he speaks, pride for her beloved softening that sharp streak of _hurt_, and the hard set of her mouth turns to something… pensive and disappointed, as she regards her aunt. Something sad, and then coldly resolved. She unclenches her hands, smoothing out the lines of her skirts, all shadow-catching, jewel like royal blues that make the polished bronze of her bracelets seem to burn in comparison. 

“So you say.” The older woman replies blandly, raking him up and down with a look of dissatisfaction. “But fair words don’t make a fair man. Your name is a disservice to your bride,” She cuts a glance to Breha. “ and your union a disservice to her House. Her _real_ House.”

That cuts Bail, and Ben can _feel_ it, but Bail does not let it show. Breha, however, is angry now, and she _does_.

“My House is House Organa.” Breha says, with all the cold, grinding implacability of the glaciers above Aldera. “For which I am relieved. Alderaan deserves a Queen whose House has honor.”

Bail glances at his fiancé, and Ben can sense his confusion. To be fair, Ben is confused too – but Breha is not, and neither is the Madame Antilles. She flushes darkly, something about her seeming to twist up and coil. Breha’s cold look tells her she is unforgiven for her crime – Madame Antilles equally icy demeanor says she wouldn’t have bothered asking for forgiveness in the first place.

There is a break between them, a crevasse of sharp edges and shearing, bitter cold, and Ben can’t imagine what would so tear a family apart-

He doesn’t have to imagine, he realizes.

He was there, wasn’t he?

Ben glances aside at Lord Organa, and Senator Antilles, opening and closing his mouth, because there is no one, really, that he can ask at the moment;

Did Breha _really_ invite Bail’s would-be _murderer_ to their _Engagement Ceremony_?

“So be it.” Madaem Antilles demurs, perhaps not in the least because one of the _uniformed_ Alderaan Royal Service Agents has discreetly appeared around the edge of the dias, which is fairly indicative of the fact that more than one of those non-uniformed agents has probably already sidled up around her in amongst the guests. She is proud enough to air her disdain – but _too_ proud to cause a scene of scandal by forcing security to intervene.

Everyone breathes easier when she dismisses herself, and the next guest to approach the dias seems to have outright forgotten what they meant to say, derailed utterly in their thoughts by what just occurred.

Eventually, he steps aside with a blush and a polite, if rote well-wish, and two little boys stumble over each other to ask if Bail was going to be King and if Bail was going to be King, how did they decide who was going to sit on the throne in the High Court, because they’d seen it and there was only one and both the King _and_ Queen couldn’t fit.

Bail laughs, and the tension rapidly eases as he explains that no, he wouldn’t be King, as he was not due to rule Alderaan. He’d be a Prince, suitable to rule Alderaan should Breha be unable to, at least until a new proper monarch was instated, but not a King. Breha interjects to say, however, that she was more than amenable to let her husband borrow her throne from time to time, as it was a _very_ nice chair. The boys giggle, and the evening may be getting darker, but the air feels so much lighter, and Ben relaxes into it again.

At least until he’s called up with the other witnesses, to swear to be fair and honest with Bail and Breha, and to judge their character to that of their fiancé’s, and provide future council and bear witness at their wedding that the match was made in good faith.

Been has felt less intensely scrutinized while giving _war debriefings_ to the _Senate_ than he does standing before the people of Alderaan and pledging himself to do this in their service.

Bail is nothing but good nature and a warm clasp on the arm afterwards, but Breha offers a quiet, private murmur of gratitude that eases some of the odd anxious alarm in his gut, and he is drawn away from the couple and into socializing with their people.

Ben lets go of himself for a little while, lulled into a pattern of idle courtesies and polite conversation, a few dances and a few decadent bites from the catering. Children and elders seem overly fond of tucking flowers into his hair, and ambitious teenagers of trying to get a dance with a Jedi Master, just to say they did. He indulges perhaps too many of them, but the evening has turned easy and buoyant, and he lets that feeling carry him.

He catches a glimpse of Bail and Breha a few hours later, never quite having lost track of them with his senses, but long after having lost track of them with his eyes.

They are half hiding behind a large vase overflowing with sprays of golden flowers, Breha leaning into Bail’s shoulder as he teases one lock of her short hair between his fingertips, ostensibly fixing one of the pins. There’s a flirtatious smile on his face, and a lofty look of amusement on hers as he clearly murmurs something appropriately wooing. Her lips twitch as she presses down a real smile, and her lifts a hand to place her fingertips over his lips, shutting him up. She looks overly fond – if slightly exasperated, and a challenge sparks in his eyes like a dare has just been issued. Breha lifts an imperious, quelling brow, and Bail lets his hand leave her hair, tracing the edges of her face, and then capturing that hand, pulling her fingers away from his mouth only to kiss her knuckles, and then her palm, and then her wrist.

‘_Bail_.’ Ben can read her lips.

‘_Yes, dear?_’

She sighs, and Bail perks up, eyes only for her. Breha smiles, soft and a little tired and very happy.

‘_I love you_.’ Breha tells him.

‘_Well, I certainly hoped so_.’ Bail replies cheekily. Breha tugs her hand away, using it to smooth out the fold of his cape.

She looks up at him dryly. ‘_Wait, I change my mind_.’

Bail grins. ‘_Too late, dearest, you promised to marry me_.’

‘_Oh, did I?_’

‘_Yes_.’ Bail teases. ‘_There were witnesses_.’

‘_Why would I do that_?’

Bail’s grin softens into a helpless sort of smile. ‘_Because I love you_.’

Ben grins and turns away, giving them their one minute of privacy, and happens to glance at Bail’s father and Breha’s mother, standing as a buffer a few yards away, just in time to see them both look up at the ceiling and sigh deeply, the universal expression of parents whose children are, occasionally, just _too much_.

It is, Ben decides, a beautiful night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Writing these two just makes my heart happy, okay?


	33. Chapter 33

“As lovely as it is to have you here, I’m sure you’ll be relieved to go home.” Breha comments lightly, indulging in a private brunch with her fiancé, his best friend, and her own best friend. “You must be missing Obi-Wan.”

Ben smiles faintly, savoring his cup of tea, some kind of peppery flower Breha had imported. “He must have _some_ room to grow without me.”

“All children do.” Breha concedes, a mishcevious gleam in her eyes he doesn’t quite understand. Bail smiles, and casually lays a hand over hers. Ben eyes them both, wondering what that exchange was about. “Though he’ll certainly be glad to have you back safe and sound.”

“I always come back safe and sound.” Ben says. “Eventually.” He pauses, studying her. “Have you spoken to Obi-Wan?” He inquires.

Breha smiles and turns her head, watching a songbird out the window. “He and I get along quite well.” She remarks.

“You do?” Bail inquires, curious. Breha and her friend share an amused glance.

“We do.” Breha says simply.

Ben looks down into his cup, warmth and wist unfurling in equal measure in his chest. He is glad Breha and Obi-Wan get along so well. They make good friends, those two. In this life, they’d also have a chance to be _better_ friends than Ben and her ever were.

“I’m glad of it.” Ben admits, out loud, as Healer Kala says he should do more often. “Although, I’m not sure I like the idea of leaving before this plot against Bail has been decidedly _finished_.”

Some of Breha’s charm and levity fade, the cool seriousness in his gaze more familiar than all her courtly graces. “It is finished.” Breha says irrefutably. “I’ve only yet to make it official.”

There is no regret in her voice, or in her presence, but there is sorrow, and Ben is sorry for it. She has been betrayed by one of her own, by someone she perhaps even _loved_. Adored. Respected.

“I’ll be there.” Ben offers, full of empathy. “If you want me to be.”

She studies his face, and her own turns bittersweet. “I should do this myself.” Breha says. “No. I need to do this myself. For me. She does not get to decide who I am.” Breha says firmly, her dark-eyed gaze like liquid bronze. _No one does_. Those eyes say, looking at him, looking at Bail. _Not even you_.

Bail smiles, leans in, and kisses her cheek. The thing about Bail was that he’d never wanted to decide who Breha was or should be. He simply wanted her to _be_.

~*~

“This is getting out of hand.” Master Se’Sanimma murmurs behinds the thoughtful pair of fingers she has pressed to her lips as she surveys the classroom they’d commanderred.

“You started it.” Quinlan retorts, idly picking dried glue out from under his fingernails.

The oblong shaped classroom had once been a clear space, last used more musical instruction, with raised steps for the choir stand and a small center stage for a composer, or instructor, or soloist.

In the grand effort to keep the crechelings distractedly occupied during this rather stressful time for the Temple, Quinlan and Master Se had combined both their many talents to create a very involved sort of strategy game. Or at least, that was what they told Master B’una.

They hadn’t been _lying_.

With a gratuitous use of plasticrete, old flimsi, plastipaint, glitter, goop, and scavenged materials, the crechelings had covered every inch of the classroom floor in tropical flimsi-crete swampland, where the flightless, feathered Twi-Larks where under attack by the glitter-spewing Swamp-Lurkers, both sides threatening the fragile eco-system of Vosites – which resembles nothing so much as many-legged, many eyed mushrooms – and where therefore both under siege by the guerilla forces of the Dragon-Bees, mystic guardians of the Vosites.

So it was arts-and-crafts, and strategy, and teamwork.

Mostly, it was messy.

Hordes of little plush monsters lurked in their tactical positions, the plush creations softer under the night-light glow than the flimsi-crete swamp around them. Some of the swamp included actual puddles, some of which glowed, some of which sort of…fizzled, and Master Se hadn’t asked what, exactly, he’d done to make them do that. In and around all the surprisingly well flushed out flimsi-crete trees and mounds of curly wire-and-ribbon grasses, the crechelings under Mater Se’s care were taking a very well deserved nap, though some where whispering sneak attack plans to each other under the corners of their blankets, quieted with their crechemasters gentle warning.

Quinlan smiles at Aayla, curled up in her own battalian of crazy little monsters, all of which she’d made herself – she was getting very good at making them, and Quinlan now had to keep _three_ tucked into his belt – half-chewing on one’s already ragged ear. Or arm. Whichever.

Anakin Skywalker bolts awake screaming.

Quinlan startles badly, jerking back, tripping over someone’s tail and whirling on the doorway, because for a second, for a heartbeat, there had been…

Something.

A threat.

But it’s not in the room, he realizes, hand clenched for a weapon he isn’t allowed to carry on his own. It was in the Force.

“Padawan Vos.” Master Se says calmly, but it’s a caution all the same. Quinlan stumbles out of the room, barely catching a glance of her bent down next to terrified little Ani, and tear-stained Jax, panting and clutching the shirt of his best friend. The clan is all awake now, some of the children whimpering in sympathetic fright, others mumbling in confusion, sleep-addled and confused.

Quinlan’s heart is pounding, as he forces his legs to carry him down the corridor, feels a familiar cold tendril wind up his spine, like icy fingers trailing up the back of his neck, around his throat, plunging into his chest, digging at his heart.

There’s a snarl on his face, a sneer, as he scratches at his skin, at that cold, and sniffs the air like a Nexu scenting for its prey.

Or it’s hunter.

There had been _something_.

And better to focus on that, than on all that fear and helplessness behind him, ripe and malleable and the things he could do with minds so open, with spirits so soft and weak-

“Quinlan!” Aayla barks out his name, and he grinds his teeth till he tastes blood.

Did it have to be _her_?

Of course it did.

It was _always_ her.

Because Aayla Secura was both always and never afraid. Like Shmi Skywalker, there was an untouchable dichotomy inside her. For Shmi Skywalker it was anger – always felt and never heeded, not repressed, just…accepted. It shaped her, burned in her bones and bated on her breathe, full of so much coiling power and let go as if that power were worthless.

But for Aayla it was fear. She was always afraid. It bit at her thoughts and trembled in her accented words, curled around her shoulders and pooled in her stomach, etched in her eyes and seeded through her blood. She _reeked_ of it. But for Aayla, being afraid was the hard part. Everything after that came _so_ easy. So she was afraid, and her fear made her dauntless. It was the fuel to her fire, and she blazed, like a magnesium torch against dark ice.

It wasn’t _fair_.

_Oh, bite me_. Quinlan snapped at himself. _Life isn’t fair_.

He forces himself to turn around, and there she is, out of reach of a lunge, feet planted in a solid stance, hand balled up and held out from her body, shoulders rigid, lekku curved back. She’s glaring at him and it’s this…this _ridiculous_ thing she does, glaring at that _thing_ inside of him, like she could find it and crave it out. Like she wants to, at least.

There is power in the Dark Side. But no kindness. And he knows which one Aayla needs more.

It’s hard, and it hurts, dragging himself out of the well. It _physically_ hurts. But he does it, helped along by the brilliant thread tying him to Obi-Wan, whose attention he appears to have caught, wherever the younger Padawan is in the Temple at the moment. The world presses in too close, cloying and rotted and needy, and then it slides back in startling clarity, in distant, pristine focus, and Aayla stands there and watches him until that fades too, and he’s just Quinlan again, feeling like a living bruise.

“Aayla.” Quinlan croaks out, and she smiles and dashes forward, crashing into him with a hug that feels a lot like being slammed by a small speeder-bike.

She takes his hand and leads him back into the classroom, where the younglings have huddled up and Anakin and Jax are wrapped around each other, pulled into Master Se’s lap. Jax looks like he’s trying to crawl inside of Anakin;s ribcage, he’s so tightly compressed, clutching at his friend, and Anakin keeps babbling, tugging at his hair and throwing his hands out, insistent, his little chest still heaving.

“- can’t let it in. We can’t let it in.”

“Let what in?” Quinlan asks, a little gruffer than he’d like, but Anakin’s head swivels towards him, blue eyes wide and dark, his pupil bigger than they should be with the lights up.

The little boy opens and closes his mouth a few times, still panting, body shuddering.

“We don’t know.” He hiccups, angry and frightened. “We don’t _know_.”


	34. Chapter 34

Ben has no sooner stepped off his transport than he has to all but catch Anakin, who lunges from his mother’s arms and into Ben’s, while Jac continues to cling to Shmi, his face buried in her neck.

“What’s wrong?” Ben asks quickly, tucking Anakin close against his shoulder, to boy’s face pressing into is hair.

“They had a bad dream.” Shmi replies, a line between her brows as she carefully rocks the boy in her arms. Against Ben’s neck, Anakin shakes his head, fingers curling into Ben’s tunics, but he doesn’t actually say anything. He all but burrows himself into Ben’s Force presence, needy and slightly overwhelming, as powerful as he is, and Ben has to focus to brace himself, carefully enshrouding the boy in the promise of comfort and safety. And Shmi and Jax too, for good measure. “They have been… upset.” Shmi says, worry in her tone as she pets Jax’s hair.

Ben turns his face a little, resting his cheek against Anakin’s brow, and wonders.

_Surely he didn’t have _those_ dreams this young_?

Anakin had always been prone to vivid dreams, made worse by his anxiety, but they had been mild when he was younger, as far as Ben had known. It was as an adult that they’d stricken him with such distress.

But maybe that wasn’t about the dreaming at all, so much as the content.

Jax sniffles and sits up a little, anxiously seeking Anakin. The pair grow closer and closer every day, in sync as few ever were, and so _young_. His brown eyes are red rimmed from crying, and Ben reaches out to cup his cheek, brushing thumb near his eye in sympathy.

Jax leans into the gesture, and Ben pauses.

Anakin felt tense and needy and uncertain. _Jax_ felt terrified.

_They_ had a dream, Shmi had said.

_Ben_ had made the assumption that the dream had been _Anakin’s_.

The boys are best friends, inseparable, really, but Ben has never once actually heard Jax _talk_. But Anakin says he does. Anakin tells them the things Jax has said all the time.

Ben lifts his hand to cup the top of Jax’s brow, and the boy watches him warily. Ben smiles, and Jax smiles quietly back. It’s hard to get a feel for him – he tends to blur under Anakin in the Force the way Anakin blurred under his mother. He’s not powerful, a candle next to Anakin’s blazing star, but he’s watchful, clever, careful. He’s never had trouble keeping up with the other boy, the way other younglings do. The way everyone – Ben included – always did, not intellectually, not creatively. Anakin got frustrated with those who couldn’t keep up with his thoughts, and he was never frustrated with Jax.

Shmi lifts a brow, and Ben quirks his lips, glancing at her in a silent request for patience. Carefully, slowly, he opens his shields.

Maybe Jax is only just a candle in the force, but if he is, he’s reflected in diamonds – a kaleidoscope that turns and brims, flashes not just of inspiration, but true _insight_. He’s got hard shields for a youngling, a blunt barrier all around his mind, and Ben can only imagine the noise he tries to block out. The noise Anakin, being _Anakin_, must be a blissful buffer for.

“Am I an idiot or did you know he was a psychic?” Ben inquires, looking back to Shmi.

True psychics were rare. Every generation of Jedi had their telepaths, empaths and seers, but psychics were something else, all and neither. The only notable ones Ben can remember… they weren’t tragedies, all told, but their lives were difficult, their roles hard to maintain. The living mind could only handle so much, to say nothing of the heart, and psychics suffered the whole galaxy trying to pour into their heads. And the difference between Jedi who could glean such things and Jedi who _were_ Seers or Empaths or Psychics was that no shields in the world could keep it out.

“I did not know.” Shmi replies, brow furrowing. “I merely thought he could not speak.” She touches the base of her throat briefly, suggesting she considered injury or defect.

Anakin leans away from Ben and looks at them as if he though _both_ of them were idiots.

“What did he dream about, Anakin?” Ben asks softly.

“I don’t _know_.” Anakin growls petulantly, dark blonde hair flopping over his eyes. “It didn’t make sense. But we – we have to keep it out. It can’t come in. We can’t let it in.” His voice rises, and Ben squeezes him a little tighter, shushing him carefully.

“Alright. It’s alright, Anakin. Jax.” He adds, ruffling the other boys hair. Shmi gives Ben a short, unhappy look for having upset them in the first place, and he scolds his own impatience. He could have waited, asked _her_ instead. She’d undoubtedly already tried that line of inquiry.

“Sorry.” Ben murmurs, and scans the rest of the platform with a frowning eye. “Where is my padawan?” He inquires curiously, letting it drift into the Force.

‘_Taking a test_.’ Obi-Wan replies irritably, a sense of _focus-interrupted_ accompanying the press of words. ‘_For the second time_.’

‘_Oh dear_.’ Ben sends back, and closes his shields again, aware he’d been projecting a little, and had likely distracted his padawan more than he had meant to. He still gets a sense _relief-gladness-expectation_ his padawan sends though, welcoming him home.

“I believe he is in class.” Shmi says.

“Right.” Ben nods with half a smile. “Then I suppose I ought to invite you to sample the tea I’ve brought back with me then, Shmi, so you can fill me in on what’s gone on while I was away?” He offers hopefully.

Shmi offers him a dry, familiar smile. “I suppose I ought to accept.” She replies.

~*~

“I won’t plead regret.” Lady Alejana Antilles says crisply, waiting in her sitting room, her skirts all black and bronze, her shawl soft and white. She’s just as Breha remembers her as a girl, a woman of old tradition, proud of her heritage. She’d inspired Breha’s own love of history, her dedication to culture, which had put her on the path to becoming Queen. She hadn’t been Breha’s favorite Aunt, back when Breha had been Little Bre. She’d been stern and fussy all Breha’s life, always clicking her tongue and rebuking any deficit of manners.

But she was one Breha had looked up to, had deeply respected.

And it hurts and it isn’t fair that she tarnishes it now, the esteem Breha held for her.

“I didn’t expect you to and I wouldn’t have believed you if you did.” Her tone just as cool and level.

Her aunt doesn’t invite her to sit. Breha sits anyways, her Agents posted at the door, though she doesn’t expect violence. Aunt Alejana could make hard decisions, cold decisions, sure – but she wasn’t the one to get herself dirty, wasn’t the one to toil and sweat and risk breaking. If she had been, maybe she would have been Queen, in her day.

Her aunt studies her, lips pursed, gaze severe. “You did so _well_ before him, Breha.” Alejana finally says. “I never expected _you_, of all of them, to disappoint me.”

Breha lifts an unimpressed, rounded brow, and Alejana clicks her tongue, gaze flashing in disapproval. “You were _there_, Breha, the jewel of the world. You had the poise, the intellect, the grit. Ten generations of tradition and power behind your name. You would have been _The_ Queen Antilles, girl.” Lady Alejana takes a breath. “Was that not _enough_ for you? You had to have your gaze caught by some pretty young thing from a falling House when all the rest of the world would have pledged their lives just to bear _your_ name.”

Breha learned much from the Lady Alejana Antilles growing up. She can be grimly relieved that pride wasn’t one of them.

“I see.” Breha remarks. “But I don’t think you do.” She stands, gesturing to her agents. She has heard… much of what she expected to hear, after her Aunt’s display at the engagement.

“Ten generations of tradition and power behind the Royal House Antilles.” Breha repeats Alejana’s own words. “I hope they are ashamed of you, and the stain you have placed upon that name you love so much.”

“There is no shame in acting in service to my house.” Alejana says sharply, rising to her feet as Breha’s people. “Our House trumps everything.”

“No.” Breha says sharply, feeling her face heat with anger. “It does _not_. I am the Queen, I act in service to _Alderaan_, and Alderaan demands above all else_ honor, selflessness, justice_. And what you have done betrays all of those. So my judgement is this;” Breha takes a breath, steadies herself, lets go of her anger, and her sorrow. This is what it must be, and so is she. “You are Unbound. We take from you the House of Antilles. We take from you your Lineage. We take from you your citizenship of Alderaan. You are only yourself. What you do reflects only you. You have no history, and no home. But you do have a future. You will leave, and advise you to make something of it.”

Alejana is too disciplined to gasp or faint, but her face pales and tightens, making her sharp edges seem frail. But she was born a daughter of Alderaan too. She gives the barest of nods, and accepts this judgement from her Queen, looking upon Breha as a stranger.

And the irony is this; Breha did not always know she would be Queen – it was Alejana who told her what she needed to hear, needed to take into herself, to go that far, to bring herself here, to this moment;

_You are a child of the House Antilles. You do not _settle_ when it comes to the things you want._

So Breha never has.

~*~

“Obi-Wan!” He braces himself, but impact never comes. Sian trots to a stop, looking uncharacteristically nervous in the way she holds herself, in the way she fidgets.

“Did you… do something?” He asks, trying not be accusatory, but he’s not sure why she’s acting like this around _him_. It’s weird.

“Uh…no?” She doesn’t sound sure, and that – well, all of Obi-Wan’s friends are like that. Which is a pretty good indicator that he’s probably like that too.

Maybe he’s the _most_ like that.

But he doesn’t have to _admit_ it.

“Okay.” Obi-Wan says, accepting that for what it was. Sian flashes a weak smile, tucking her fringe back from her face.

“I sort of need your help.”

“Okay.” He says easily.

“Not like that.”

“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.” Obi-Wan says honestly. “So you should probably just spit it out.”

“Master Dooku is back in Temple.” Sian blurts, looking excited and sick to her stomach.

“What?” Obi-Wan blinks, wondering how he hadn’t heard about it. He must have returned _very_ recently for that have not to made the rounds of the rumor mill. Or very quietly.

“I want to ask him to help me with my makashi.” Sian says, which Obi-Wan knows. “But I just…” She groans, staggers a step forward, and flops against his shoulder. “He’s my grandmaster, and he’s never even said hello to me. What if he hates me?”

“Jedi,” Obi-Wan points out. “ don’t hate.”

“What if he _greatly dislikes_ me?” Sian pouts. “He and Master Qui-Gon don’t exactly have a stellar relationship. But I really want this, Obi-Wan. I really, really want this. I’m just… I got to his floor and I just…couldn’t do it.” She’s jittery with nerves and trepidation and a shallow sense of embarrassed guilt, and Obi-Wan takes a moment to just push some calm reserve at her. She pats him on the arm in thanks, and slouches off of him, stepping back. “He…works with you, at least. So I was hoping you wouldn’t mind coming with me? I know it’s…you’re busy, and it’s such a dumb thing to need -“

“Sian.” Obi-Wan remarks, lifting a brow. “Moral support is not a dumb thing to need.”

“For my own grandmaster?” She says skeptically, self-defeating, which isn’t like her at all.

“Especially for that.” Obi-Wan huffs. “Should I remind you I don’t even kn-ow my own grandmaster’s _name_?”

“Yeah, but your master is just weird.” Sian remarks.

“Thanks.” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes.

She shrugs, but there is still something tight around her eyes, and Obi-Wan gets it. Some of it is about Master Dooku being her grandmaster, but a lot of it he thinks is was Sian has at stake here; She wants to _master_ Makashi. Not even that; she wants to _remaster_ Makashi into her own form.

And that rests on learning it, and learning it right.

And Dooku can make that happen.

Or he can deny her.

And she doesn’t know what he’ll do. Or what she’ll do, if he refuses to teach her.

“Well, now is as good a tie as any.” Obi-Wan remarks, and Sian nods, rocking her balance into motion and leading the way, bolstered with him trailing just behind.

‘_I’ll be a little late_.’ He projects to his master, who still hasn’t had a chance to do much more than say hello and goodbye to his padawan as they pass each other coming in and out of their quarters. Master Ben’s reply is more vague acknowledgement than anything coherent, and then, after a pause;

‘_That’s just as well. I’ve been summoned back to the Halls of Healing._’

Obi-Wan shakes his head, slipping into the lift with Sian. As it was a personal trip, his master wasn’t required to submit a report on what occurred during his time away, but as he had been injured, he had been required to transfer the medical report from Alderaan to the Halls. Very likely, either Essja or Healer Kala just found it. Given that Master Ben spent the last day trying to skirt around Knight Gallia and giving short, disgruntled looks to Master Yaddle, of all people, Obi-Wan figures he’ll let his master sort his own mess out. Obi-Wan has plenty of his own.

Sian slows down as they get closer to Master Dooku’s quarters, less of a stalking stride and more of a cautious lope until they come right up to the door and she just…stops.

Obi-Wan waits her out a minute, and she grounds herself, taking three steady, even breaths. And then her hand darts for the keypad and presses the chime, too quick to not do it if she changed her mind. Obi-Wan jostles her elbow, and she lets out a puff of air, thankful, jostling him back.

Master Dooku is slow to answer the door, but the padawans can sense him inside. Master Dooku’s presence isn’t particularly bright or vast, but it has a weight to it, the same gravity the man himself embodies. And there’s something…

He opens the door, imposing shadow filling the frame. Sian and Obi-Wan both bow.

“Master Dooku.” Obi-Wan greets, when Sian sees to lose her voice. Her jaw is clenched, and she looks angry, but she doesn’t _feel_ angry. “We heard you were back in temple.”

“Obviously.” Master Dooku replies snidely. “Unless you make a habit of knocking on my empty quarters.”

Obi-Wan smiles thinly in response, and the Master eyes him up and down appraisingly, but almost…apprehensive? Of _Obi-Wan_?

He glances at Sian, takes her in, and that sensation gets worse. He looks about as ready to deal with his grandpadawan as she is to deal with him, which bounces somewhere between _not-at-all_ and _I-believe-I-must_.

“People actually visit you?”

Master Dooku tenses, Obi-Wan frowns, and Sian just sort of leans to one side, trying to see past Master Dooku to the speaker coming up behind him.

“Color me…curious.” The woman remarks, and had Master Dooku not shifted back, giving her room to look out the door, Obi-Wan has the idea that she might not have stopped walking at all, and just pressed right past him. She’s tall and underweight, with bone-blonde hair and washed out blue eyes. Her eyes are bloodshot, and she stands proudly, but there’s a tremble in her frame that isn’t from cold. All the edges of her presence are tucked in like a cringe, making her near invisible next to Dooku, but there’s a spark to her smile, and it’s bright and real, despite how strung out she looks. “Little padawans.” She greets.

Sian and Obi-Wan both open their mouths to reply, but neither of them know quite what to say, and Dooku’s deeply uncomfortable look makes him stepping in utterly unlikely.

“Ah.” She says, folding her arms like she needs to hold herself up. “Remind me of my manners – we haven’t been introduced.” She cuts a glance at Master Dooku, whose expression closes instantly into his usual stern visage, and he regains his bearing. He looks tired.

“Allow me to introduce my Padawan: Komari Vosa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: I don't know if you know, but there is a crazy amount of characters in star wars with blue eyes. And i have to find a different descriptor for _ all of them._
> 
> Next Arc coming soon!


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